#derealization whump

[whumpy-wyrms]

The Last Lab Rat #14: Time Flies

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content: lab whump, captivity, sleep deprivation, escape, derealization, gore, gruesome murder, death, needles, mind control, defiant winged test subject whumpee, creepy scientist carewhumper

YAY!! YIPPEEEE!!!!!!! 😈😈😈😈

— 

Tonight was the night, Dew decided. Tonight was the night he’d finally escape.

Earlier that day, he and Sasha silently communicated that they were ready. All Dew had to do now was wait until the snake slithered through the vents and into his room once Anton had gone to sleep. And then… Escape. Their plan was flawless: Crawl through the tight, dark and claustrophobic air ducts, as quiet and quickly as possible, all the way up to the surface.

All he had to do was exit the vents into Anton’s cabin, a place he was only somewhat familiar with, and steal that mind-controlling device from the scientist, then make his way outside as quiet as he’d ever have to be. All he had to do was not be seen, or heard, or caught, or hurt. All Dew had to do was escape, and then he would be free.

Dew had the relatively legible map of the air ducts memorized by now, but Sasha knew it best, so they would lead the way. Dew wasn’t going to bring anything with him. As much as he loved his music, and his sketchbook, and his ghost light, and his… chicken, it was all too much of a liability. All Dew would have with him were his glasses, clothes on his back, and his wings that made the whole escape possible.

He didn’t care if Anton found his plans in that notepad; he’d be long gone by then. He didn’t care that, technically, he’d have no evidence of ever being friends with Sasha, except the memories to hold on tightly to. Dew wished he could bring his sketchbook, wished that it wouldn’t be doomed to be buried deep underneath the ground in the lab forever. Dew’s art was a part of him, does that mean a part of him would always be stuck down there too?

…Dew supposed that whether or not he brought his sketchbook with him, it was true. A part of Dew would always be stuck in that lab. But the rest of him deserved to be free. He wouldn’t let himself be stuck in the past and let the scientist continue to ruin his life.

So that night, after Dew had fallen asleep on the couch and was carried back to his room by Anton after a surprisingly fun birthday party, Dew woke up. He lay awake waiting for Sasha to show up. And as it turned out, they slithered through the vents a lot faster than Dew thought.

“Ssspp!” Sasha hissed, getting Dew’s attention from the vents. “This is it, Dew! Are you ready?!”

“Yeah,” Dew whispered, more determined than he’d ever been. “I’m ready.”

“Sweet! Anton’s sound asleep, so this should be easy!”

“Sasha,” Dew whispered, voice shaking. “You really sure this will work?”

“Of course it will!” Sasha unlatched the vents with their tail, and peaked their head through. “Now hurry up, the sky is waiting for you!”

“O-okay! Let’s do this!” Dew took one last drink of water from the sink, and looked around the room he’d spent the last few months trapped in. He glanced out the window to the dark and empty lab and shuddered. He wouldn’t miss this place. Dew flew upwards, through the vent and into the air ducts.

The journey to the surface was simple and familiar; it was what Dew and Sasha had been practicing for the past few weeks now. They knew all the twists and turns and dead ends and drops and exits. They knew the way out, so they made no detours. They kept going.

Dew ignored that feeling of dread deep in the pit of his stomach, like something bad was going to happen, because it didn’t matter. He couldn’t go back now, and he wasn’t going to.

Dew couldn’t wait to see his friends, especially after his birthday yesterday. They were all probably so worried for him, wondering where he was. But he’d surprise them tonight!

They made it to the exit after about an hour of crawling through the cold metal tunnels. Dew never knew how claustrophobic he could be, especially with the hope that he’d soon stretch his wings and fly through the sky.

Sasha opened the latch with their tail and slithered through, letting Dew into the living room of Anton’s cabin. They were both silent, as if they rehearsed this situation countless times in their minds, and knew that any sort of talking would only reveal themselves. But that was okay, because Dew knew exactly what he had to do next.

And he was more terrified than he had ever been in his life.

Dew tiptoed to Anton’s room, taking anxious glances at Sasha on his shoulders every few seconds. He passed a few large windows, but held back from hopping out just yet. He didn’t want this to end exactly how it did last time. Sasha told him Anton was not a light sleeper, and that if they both kept quiet, this would be easy. Just in and out, quick and easy, no need to get worked up about it.

Dew twisted the doorknob, and pushed the door open with a creak. He winced, but peaked his head into the scientist’s bedroom. It was too dark to notice anything; the blinds of the window were closed, letting in very little moonlight.

Sasha slithered down Dew’s body and onto the floor, quietly moving across the light green rug and climbing onto Anton’s nightstand. They gestured with their tail to what drawer the scientist kept the mind-control contraption in.

Dew nodded and started tiptoeing closer, as quietly as he could. Dew could tell the carpet was soft, softer than anything he’d touched recently. The thought made him want to snuggle up under the covers, safe and warm with no fear of being caught. But instead, he was walking across his captor’s room— while the man slept just a few feet away from him— planning to take back what was his.

Dew arrived at Sasha, who had opened the drawer that held the device. Dew swallowed thickly, glancing at the scientist sleeping next to them. Anton was facing away, curled up in a ball under the covers. The blankets shifted up and down as he breathed, blissfully unaware of what was happening next to him.

Dew reached his hand into the drawer and pulled out the device. With a click of a button, the chip in Dew’s brain would be activated, allowing Anton to control his every action with a small murmur of a command.

He held it in his hands, close to his chest as if any wrong move would activate it and wake up the scientist, leaving Dew frozen in place, caught red handed, in Anton’s own room.

Sasha saw the fearful look in Dew’s eyes and slithered up his arm and onto his shoulders, beckoning him to get the hell out of there. Dew turned around and began to tiptoe across the floor, too afraid to look back.

There was a shift, a sound of something moving behind him, and Dew all but had a heart attack. Stomach dropping, assuming he was done for, Dew peaked over his shoulder.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Anton had only rolled over in his sleep. Still, it was enough to make him book it out of there. He shut Anton’s door and raced to the front door, flinging it open and stepping outside.

“We-we did it,” Dew cried happily. “We did it!”

“Not yet, destroy the thing now!” Sasha hissed.

“Right.” Dew held the device tightly in his hand, raised his arm, and smashed it into the ground. Pieces of metal and wire exploded beneath him in every direction. It was completely destroyed. Just like that, Anton couldn’t mind-control him anymore.

Dew smiled, and looked up at the sky. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and Dew didn’t remember the last time he saw so many stars. He giggled, looked back down and kicked pieces of the device across the grass. He took a deep breath of the cool, fresh autumn air and stomped on the pieces, jumping up and down, laughing happily. He missed the sound of the fallen leaves crunching beneath his feet, and kicked them in the air like confetti. It was the middle of the night; the moon was full and bright, allowing Dew to see everything in the darkness. Dew loved full moons. It was beautiful.

Once he was calmed down, he turned to Sasha, who was coiled around the porch railing. “I can’t believe I really did it,” He said, smiling and sniffling.

“Please, Dew, fly away! Be free!” Sasha exclaimed happily.

“I… I will.” Dew took a glance at the sky, and looked back at Sasha. “I-I’m gonna miss you so much. Th-thank you. Thank you Sasha.”

Sasha giggled. “You’re welco—”

The front door suddenly slammed open. Anton stepped out, hair disheveled. He raised a tranquilizer gun.

Dew jumped, his wings taking full control. Sasha sprang towards the scientist, coiling their body around Anton’s face and briefly blinding him. Dew’s wings flapped rapidly through the air, mimicking his terrified, racing heart. Sasha grabbed Anton’s gun with their tail, flinging it away into the grass. Anton took a few steps forward. Dew was flying. Sasha coiled around Anton’s head, muffling his calls before he could yell out.

“Fly Dew!” Sasha cheered, ignoring Anton’s attempts to pry them off his face. “Fly!”

Dew blinked his tears away, and darted off into the sky.

. . .

Dew never looked back, scared that if he did, he’d wake up, and all of this would turn out to be a dream.

But it really was real this time, wasn’t it? Dew was flying. Dew was finally, finally free.

He cried for what felt like forever, fueled by adrenaline as his wings did all the work on spreading as much distance from him and the lab as possible. It was the fastest he’d ever flown before, and the highest. After an hour, he flew higher, away from the trees and into the clouds. The further he flew, the more clouds there were and the darker it got. Was it going to rain? Dew was giddy at the thought. Flying in the rain. How much fun would that be?

Dew soared through the forest, doing loop-de-loops in the sky. He loved the feeling of wind in his hair and space all around him. There was a flock of nighthawks, and Dew flew with them. He giggled as the birds squawked at him, as if he was one of their own.

Anyone walking through the forest would have heard loud laughter from above them, cries of happiness through the trees. Dew was celebrating his freedom with his fellow winged friends, and he couldn’t be happier.

Dew never got tired, and he never stopped. He wanted to look at the sky, at the bright full moon, but there were clouds. So he flew above the clouds, higher than he ever had, until he couldn’t see the ground. Dew looked around himself and was surrounded by complete nothingness; a vast abyss; a void. He was completely alone up there. It was only him, the beautiful moon, and the infinite stars above him to keep him company. It was the most at peace he’d ever felt with the universe. Up here, he was truly free.

Dew fell down into the clouds again, getting misted by the water droplets inside, and fell towards the trees. Catching himself at the split second, Dew did it again. And again. He was ecstatic! He was flying! This was the best day of his life!

As he soared through the sky and took in the amazing sights of everything he’s always wanted to see, always wanted to experience, Dew realized he was getting thirsty. He was still in the woods, so there was surely to be a river down there he could drink from.

Dew dropped down to the ground and landed gracefully into the dead autumn leaves. The second his legs touched the ground, he stumbled, grabbing a tree to balance him.

Oh. He was tired. As the adrenaline of escaping started to wear off, the events of the night started to catch up to him. Dew was tired, hungry, and his entire body was sore after flying that much. His wings were burning, begging to rest. His entire body was begging to rest after barely getting a few hours of sleep the past few days.

Dew walked through the forest, listening to the sounds of the wilderness. He missed the summer, having gotten it cut short. But fall was his favorite season. And hey, at least he’d be home for Halloween! Maybe he’d even get a costume in time.

He heard rushing water, and knelt down next to the creek. Dew cupped his hands and lapped up as much cool water as he could, then stood up.

Even though he had never been anywhere near this place before, he turned to a direction and started walking. And after a little while of gaining his energy back, he flew.

. . .

After what felt like forever, Dew had spotted civilization. He realized very quickly that there was a problem.

He couldn’t let himself be seen. Not by anyone. Not yet.

He’d been missing for months and would suddenly return with giant wings. No matter what sort of attention he’d get, none of it would be in his favor. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that scientists all over the world would kill for a chance to study his wings. There’d be no point in escaping just to be sucked back into another hell. Dew kept close to the clouds, hoping that if anybody looked up, they’d think he was just another bird.

Dew couldn’t believe how amazing flying felt, he almost didn’t want to stop. In the back of his mind, he’d thought about eventually having to convince his friends to move out to the countryside with him, so that way he could fly all the time without being seen. He was giddy at the thought that maybe, he’d eventually find a way to bring his friends into the sky with him.

But he was getting ahead of himself. He didn’t even know where he was, after all. But he followed the birds, and continued on his journey.

And then, high up in the night sky with the autumn air flowing through his wings, Dew spotted it: his house. His home. Where his friends would be waiting for him! Dew cried in joy as he soared downward, racing to the ground like a meteor, like a shooting star. Once he landed on trembling legs, he stumbled up to the front door.

Dew couldn’t believe it! He was out! He was back! He was home!

It had to be around 3 in the morning by now, so nobody was around to see him and his wings. Dew looked at the house; the place he’d been dreaming of coming back to for so long, and it didn’t feel real. Dew tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

Of course it was; his friends knew how to keep themselves safe, unlike him. If only he knew of the dangers of the night, maybe he never would have been kidnapped by the scientist. But it was no use contemplating the past. Dew instinctively checked his pockets; empty, of course. So he fished out the spare key from under the doormat, and unlocked the door. Dew didn’t bother knocking, or ringing the doorbell, or even announcing his return when he opened the door and peeked inside. He lived here too, after all.

Dew was still standing in the doorway. He took a deep breath, and then a careful step inside as if the floor would drop out and he’d fall into the vents back at the lab, as if he was still crawling through them like he’d been doing every night and all this was just his mind playing tricks on him.

But that didn’t happen, so he took another step. And then another. And then he whipped around and slammed the door shut, wincing at the loud noise it made, but quickly locking it closed. There! The scientist couldn’t get him in here! He was safe!

Dew laughed quietly, wiping the tears from his eyes. He was really home. He was home!

Dew wanted nothing more than to collapse in his warm bed and snuggle with his friends and pets in the comfort and safety of his home, because god, he was so fucking tired.

Dew took a few more steps though the house until he smelt something strange. Cake? He sniffed into the air. That was odd, but he ignored it. He walked down the hallway, not bothering to kick off his shoes he no longer had, so he didn’t notice his old pair lying next to his friends’. Dew entered the kitchen, and stopped in his tracks.

All around the room was a mess of colorful streamers and confetti. There were balloons littered around the floor and some floated to the ceiling. A half eaten birthday cake sat on the counter. Dew tripped on a piece of stray wrapping paper as he walked up to it. Written on the cake in light blue icing were the words, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY…” and he was sure there was supposed to be a name on the other side, but it had been eaten.

Right away, Dew realized there was something wrong. He expected to find his friends waiting for him, excited to finally see him after so long. He expected a reunion filled with tears of joy and happiness. But he instead got birthday party decorations, and his friends were nowhere in sight.

Dew walked further inside his house until he entered the living room. The TV was still on, playing episodes of his favorite show— the same one he had watched last night— but the volume was turned down so it could hardly be heard. Hanging on the walls was a sign that also said happy birthday, with balloons in the shape of a two and a three floating next to it. 

Dew frowned, racking his brain on what all this could mean. Sure, his birthday was yesterday, but Dew had been gone— missing— for months. Surely his friends weren’t just celebrating his birthday without him. That wouldn’t make any sense. And why do all this when they could be looking for him? Why waste time with cake and… a pile of opened birthday presents… when he wasn’t there with them?

Dew’s mind raced. What the fuck was happening? Who was this all for? Why was his birthday celebrated without him? Who had opened his presents? Eaten his cake? Who did they sing to? Who made his wish?

His head pounded. He had been awake for… a very long time. Dew hadn’t gotten a full night's rest in who knows how long. Was he hallucinating? Had his sleep deprivation finally caught up to him?

Dew looked down, and his eyes widened. Sleeping on the couch, snuggled up close in a warm blanket and Sir Bonkles sleeping between them, were Dew’s best friends Hayden and Layla.

It was the first time Dew saw his friends in months, and all he wanted to do was hug them. But now, Hayden and Layla looked so peaceful sleeping there, he didn’t want to wake them up. So he didn’t. Dew was so tired now, maybe he should just ignore all of this. Maybe he should just go to sleep and pretend everything was back to normal. Besides, he didn’t feel like explaining how he got his giant wings right now. He’d rather sleep in his own bed, and rest now that he was home and safe.

Dew numbly walked to his bedroom and shut the door. Everything felt like a haze. He slid down the wall and curled up on his soft carpet. He couldn’t bring himself to cry, he just wanted to sleep.

Dew pulled himself from the floor and walked to his bunk bed. He climbed his ladder, and was just about to collapse into his soft bed when he froze— almost falling backwards onto the floor and needing to flap his wings to keep himself from losing balance.

“W-what?” He breathed. The blankets in front of him were clumped up as if there was a body underneath. As if he was sleeping there already. Dew raised his arm and poked at the lump, then shook it, then squeezed his hand and ripped the blanket from the sleeping form.

For a split second, Dew thought his friends had replaced him. Let a new friend move into their home and take his place, take his role and name and identity and birthday. But they would never do that. They loved Dew.

…But apparently not enough to tell apart the real one from the fake.

His sleep deprived brain must be making him hallucinate; that was the only explanation. Dew blinked a few times, wiped his eyes, and even pinched himself. He was still there. He wasn’t hallucinating, and this wasn’t a dream.

“Hey,” Dew said quietly, voice cracking. The body stirred, but didn’t wake up. “Hey!” He said, loud enough to wake himself up but quiet enough for his friends in the living room not to hear.

There was a sleepy murmur. The blankets shifted again as whoever was there rolled over and opened his eyes sleepily, just waking up from a peaceful slumber. And then he noticed Dew, and his entire body went rigid.

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, both frozen in time taking in each other's identical features. The person in front of Dew had his same brown eyes, his same wavy brown hair, his same dark freckles, and the same look of pure terror and confusion on his face.

But there was something different. Dew looked at the man and saw himself, sure, but before. The person he saw was full of innocence and obliviousness. He did not know the horrors that Dew had faced during the last two and a half months. He did not know the pain and agony and fear Dew had to endure. He did not know the escape attempts and homesickness and how much he could possibly miss his friends. He did not know what Dew had fucking gone through.

“W-what? What the fuck? Who are you?” The fake Dew asked, sitting up and wincing as he hit his head on the ceiling. Dew was frozen, staring back in disbelief. His stare must’ve been intense, because it caused the person on his bed to back up into the corner, afraid. He was scared of Dew.

That’s right. Dew probably looked much different, didn’t he? Eyes tired and sunken from his lack of sleep, and face filled with months worth of constant fear and pain. The giant white wings protruding from his back, along with a strange blue sweater. His pants and socks were now muddy and torn from hours spent trekking through the forest.

Looking at the “Dew” on the bed was like looking into a mirror of the past. A past so far gone that Dew could hardly recognise himself. It was as if nothing had changed. As if nothing bad had ever happened to him. As if the past two and a half months were completely erased.

Dew caught himself staring— almost similar to how Anton always stared at him— because there was no fucking way any of this could be real.

“Who are you?” Dew asked brokenly.

“What? I– I’m Dew!” The man exclaimed, looking even more confused. “Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my house? Why do you look like– like… What’s going on?”

Dew ignored his questions and hopped off the ladder onto the carpet, wanting to get some space to think. He looked around the room numbly, ignoring the other Dew who had started crawling closer to the edge of the bunk bed, watching his every move.

Laying on the floor was his old hoodie, the one he recognised instantly because of the patches that were sewn into the fabric. It was the hoodie he was wearing when he was taken to the lab, the hoodie that Anton had to “throw away” for an unknown reason and replace it with hospital gowns and blue sweaters.

Dew turned his gaze elsewhere in his bedroom. There were new polaroid photos hanging up on the walls, likely taken by Layla. Dew walked closer to inspect them, noticing that he, Layla and Hayden were all in them. But Dew never remembered getting those photos taken. And he knew for sure they had never gone to whatever amusement park they were at in those photos.

He looked so happy, they all looked so happy. There were no photos of just Layla and Hayden, it was all three. Even in some love boat ride, it was the three of them. Dew’s stomach turned.

Dew ignored the sound of movement from behind him, the sound of somebody slowly and carefully crawling out of the top bunk and down the ladder. He ignored the fearful and curious eyes staring directly at him, staring at his wings. He ignored the other man standing there silently, unmoving and afraid.

Sitting on the nightstand was Dew’s old headphones and MP3 player. He could tell because they still had old, faded minecraft stickers on them, unlike the ones Anton had given him. The only thing that was different— new— were the glasses sitting on the nightstand. Anton never had taken Dew’s glasses away.

There was a card on the nightstand as well; a birthday card. Dew reached for it, and looked inside.

“Hey!” The clone said, marching closer to him and snatching the card from Dew’s hands. “That’s– that’s mine…” His voice trailed off once Dew snapped his head in his direction, silenting him with his gaze.

“What does it say?” Dew demanded.

“It– It doesn’t matter! What even– can you just tell me what’s going on? Why are you here? Who are you?”

“I’m you!” Dew exclaimed. “Can’t you tell?! Can’t you fucking recognise me?! Or did Anton take away every sense of self when he made you?!”

“I– I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“You’re– You’re a clone of me! Y-you have to be! Probably made by the scientist after he took me! This is my house! This is my room! These are my things! This is my fucking life! You can’t just– you can’t– just pretend to be me! Pretend to feel how I feel, and act how I act! You can’t!”

Dew exploded in pent up tears and rage. He felt like this must be a dream, because the other Dew looked so scared, and Dew only ever looked like that when Anton was around. But he wasn’t here, because Dew was home.

“Am I dead?” The impostor asked. “Are you an angel?”

“No,” Dew spat. “We’re– we’re not dead. Everything’s fine.”

Nothing about this situation was fine. Not only was Dew sleep deprived, tired, anxious, confused and afraid, but he was also standing face to face with some sort of clone that had taken his place.

It was silent for another moment, and then, “Are those wings real?” The clone asked.

Dew’s eyes shot up, glaring at him. “It doesn’t matter,” He gritted between his teeth. This person– this thing had no idea what Dew had been through; the pain getting those wings had caused him. And this man was staring in awe at something he would never begin to understand, as if Dew was just some animal to gawk at.

"Are you real?"

Dew wasn't the only one wondering that, then. “I’m not sure,” He said blankly. Because it was true. For all he knew, this could all be a dream— hell, it felt like that more than reality. Dew would be more surprised if this was real.

“Are you me? Like, like from the future or something? Really, what’s going on?” 

The questions didn't cease, and when the clone reached out to touch Dew's wings, he finally snapped.

“NO!” Dew exclaimed, slapping the man’s hand away. “Don’t you fucking dare touch my wings! You don’t know anything! You don’t know what I had to go through to get here, to– to get here and find you in my place!

“You’re not me! You’re nothing like me! You’re just– just a lie! Just a fake! You’re– you’re not su-supposed to be here! You’re not supposed to be here. I’m supposed to- to be free and with m-my friends an-and—” Dew’s words trailed off into sobs.

“...Are you okay?” The clone asked softly. Dew looked up, not realizing he was sobbing uncontrollably until his wings wrapped around his body in a tight hug. He was asking him if he was okay. After everything, after stealing his life, his clone was asking him if he was okay.

Dew’s sobs came to a stop in disbelief. He looked up, and saw the clone standing there with a thoughtful expression, someone who was trying to be nice. Pity.

“Do you want a hug?” The other Dew asked, so so gently that Dew forgot about everything and decided that, yes, he did want a hug, a hug from anyone else that wasn’t the scientist. It had been so long since the last one.

Dew nodded, wiping his tears as best he could and opened his wings. The clone stepped closer tentatively, and wrapped his arms around the other. He squeezed him tight, and Dew hugged him back, his wings wrapping around them both in a comforting embrace. Dew sobbed into his own shoulder, hugged his own body, and felt his own heart beating in a chest that wasn’t his.

But this wasn’t real comfort. If this was real, Dew couldn’t go on like this anyway. The world wasn’t big enough for two Dews; his friends wouldn’t be able to adjust to being friends with two of the same person, much less while having to adjust to… everything that had happened to him. Like having wings, for starters.

And Dew couldn’t forget what this impostor did. He stole his friends, he stole his life. He was the reason nobody was looking for him, and probably never had been. He was the reason Dew was trapped in that hell for so long, filled with a false hope that eventually, somebody would find and rescue him! But because of this clone, nobody even knew Dew was gone in the first place.

Dew’s eyes opened and drifted to his nightstand. He reached towards the drawer, and opened it quietly. There sat a small pocket knife, one he had always kept for self defense, in case anyone ever broke into his room during the night.

He never thought he’d be using it against himself, as the person who had broken in. But he also never thought he’d be experimented on by a mad scientist for two and a half months straight, and yet here he was.

Dew didn’t hesitate. He stabbed the knife into his clone’s back, making him gasp out in pain and push his arms against Dew’s body. Dew tightened his grip around him, turning the hug that had just been something comforting into something that would lead to his demise.

“St-STOP!” The clone shrieked, and Dew twisted the knife deeper into his back. The clone hissed in pain, squeezing his eyes shut and flailing under his grip.

Dew pushed his clone to the ground and pounced on top of him, planting a hand over his mouth to muffle the screams. The clone let out more strangled grunts as Dew pulled the knife out from underneath him, causing blood to spray all over them both. He stabbed him again. Tears and blood painted both of their faces until they couldn't tell who was who or what was what anymore.

Dew dug the knife into his chest and stared into those identical, wide and scared brown eyes until the light behind them went out, and he was once again the only Dew left in the world.

Dew didn't realize he had killed the man until he found his room eerily silent. The body lay still on the floor, limbs sprawled out in what one can only imagine as a desperate but futile struggle to get away. Dew sat in shock on hands and knees over his own body, tears dripping onto his own face until his sleepless brain started to register what had just happened.

Dew stood up, rapidly trying to get away from the corpse when he forgot he was still holding the knife to his chest, pulling it out of the body as he stood. Blood sloshed out and around the corpse in a pool or red.

Dew dropped the knife to the ground in disgust and horror, terrified about what he had just done. The knife clattered to the floor, laying neatly in the bloodied carpet glistening in the moonlight that shone through the windows.

Dew collapsed to the floor in despair, curling into a ball and staring at his own corpse for what felt like forever. Time and space blended together in a haze and Dew clutched his pounding head in his hands, wishing for his suffering to finally end.

He killed him. He killed him. He never wanted to kill anyone! This wasn’t supposed to happen! He wasn’t a murderer!

Dew was so lost in his own mind that he hadn’t heard the footsteps making their way through the house and to his room.

“Well…” Dread panged in Dew’s chest when he heard a familiar voice coming from the doorway. “I see you’ve met the clone.”

Dew’s blood ran cold. There was nothing else he could do.

“Dewey, Dewey, Dewey…” A dark chuckle. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Dew tearfully looked up to see Anton, standing in his doorway.

“No,” Dew choked out, hyperventilating. “No, no no no no!” He backed up with frantic pleads, all in a hushed tone as to not wake his friends in the other room. “No, g-go away. Plea-please go away.”

Anton didn’t stop walking, and Dew was quickly backed into the wall. He pressed his back against it, ignoring his wings’ protests, just wishing he could disappear and never come back. His hysterical sobs didn’t cease, and Anton was now standing only inches away.

“L-l-leave me alone,” Dew cried between sobs. “Ge-get out, go aw-away. Please please just go away.” Dew saw Anton’s hand move from the corner of his eye, and he slid down the wall in defeat, expecting a needle to be drawn.

Instead, Anton knelt down and put his hands over Dew’s mouth, hushing his cries. Dew looked up in surprise, his wide eyes filled with fear and desperation, silently pleading up at the scientist.

“Shh,” Anton cooed. “Wouldn’t want to wake up your little friends.”

Dew blinked heavily, more tears falling down his cheeks and all over Anton’s hand, but he didn’t pull away.

“Nice room you got here.” Anton spoke quietly, almost gently, but there was a venom in his voice. He clicked his tongue. “Too bad everything’s covered in blood. Do you realize the mess you’ve made?”

Dew sobbed harder into Anton’s hand. He squeezed it tighter. “Be quiet, Dew.” Anton warned. “If your friends wake up, they won’t get out of this. Behave. You can do that, right?”

Dew squeezed his eyes shut, more tears falling, and nodded his head.

Dew felt more terrified than he had ever been in his life, which made his next moves strange. He slowly brought his hands up and put them on Anton’s wrist, slowly pulling the man’s hand down from over his mouth. Anton let him.

“P-please,” Dew whimpered. He spoke as quiet as he possibly could, leaving his voice as nothing but a small squeak. He was completely covered in blood, both his own, and the other’s. “Please, An-Anton. Please don’t hurt m-my friends, I’ll– I’ll do anything.”

Anton sighed. “What am I going to do with you? I won’t. Let's go back to the lab, I'll clean up your mess later.”

“...Back to the lab?” Dew whimpered.

“Yeah? Where else would we go?”

“I-I can’t go back there. Please.”

“You can. You will.”

Dew didn’t have the energy to argue with the scientist, and he didn’t know if he ever could again.

Anton patted his head. “Good,” He said, and smiled. Dew looked to the ground in utter defeat.

The scientist stood up and stretched. “Your sense of direction is astounding, I'm surprised you found your way back.”

Dew stood up on wobbly legs after him, sticking close to the wall. “...How- How'd you get here so fast?”

Anton shrugged, “Doesn’t matter.” He looked down at the dead body in curiosity and amazement. “Man, you really did a number on that guy, huh. Oh well. I can always make another one.” Anton chuckled.

“You cloned me.” Dew’s voice broke, face full of betrayal.

“I did tell you nobody would be looking for you, didn’t I? I know you have a lot of questions, and I don’t blame you. But I’ll answer them when we get back to the lab, alright?”

“...What are you gonna do to me?” Dew whimpered.

“What do you mean?”

“I– I escaped.”

“Ohh.” Anton sighed and ruffled his hair. “I knew about the vents, Dew. I know how hard you two worked on your little scheme, and I didn’t wanna ruin the excitement.”

“Y-you…” Dew felt sick to his stomach. “You knew?”

“Of course. I decided to play your little game. I wanted to see what would happen if I let you have some control.” Anton chuckled. “I didn’t think it’d be murder. I can’t say I’m not impressed. But you had to leave right after I threw you a whole birthday party? That hurts.”

Dew didn’t know if this could get any worse. His life was over, in more ways than one. Anton knew he was lying the whole time. There was absolutely nothing he could hide from him. There was no point in fighting anymore, Anton would always win. This was the worst day of his life.

“Like I said, I’ll answer your questions later. Let’s go.”

Dew tried to walk out his bedroom door, but just thinking about walking past his sleeping friends made him feel sick. He leaned against the doorframe, trying to gain his balance again. Anton noticed his struggles and walked up to him.

“You must be exhausted, huh? C’mere.” Dew didn’t resist as Anton picked him up into a bridal carry. The scientist walked out of Dew’s bloody bedroom and passed his friends on the couch. Dew sobbed louder when he caught sight of tranquilizer darts sticking out of their necks.

Oh. That’s why they didn’t wake up from all that screaming. Oh. Anton had been there the whole time.

“C’mon man,” Anton sighed. “I thought I told you to be quiet? Your friends are fine. I’ll get everything cleaned up before they wake up, promise.”

“Okay,” Dew squeaked. He hoped, with every ounce of hope he had left, that Anton was telling the truth.

Anton looked down at his test subject and tilted his head. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” Anton asked, though he already knew the answer. Dew nodded numbly. “...I can help you sleep. If you let me.”

Dew looked up. “Just– Just make it stop. Make everything stop.”

Anton nodded thoughtfully, pleased that his test subject was finally on the same page. “Sleep, Dewey,” Anton whispered into his ear, and continued walking.

And just like every other time Anton decided to control his mind, Dew started to succumb to sweet unconsciousness. His eyelids were growing heavy, and it was hard to keep his head up as he was carried out the front door. Dew’s frantic thoughts began to disperse, and his breathing grew slow and even; relaxed. His head lolled to the side, resting on Anton’s shoulder as he felt rain pouring down on them both. He looked to the sky, the stars, the moon, knowing he’d never see them again.

Dew could hardly keep his eyes open when Anton arrived at a car, which was parked on the street in front of his house. He couldn’t move his body when Anton laid him down on the backseat, and covered him with a blanket. The only noise he could hear was the rain pouring down as they drove into the night. And then, Dew finally fell asleep.

. . .

Sawyer had spent all night thinking about what Dew had told him earlier, at the surprise birthday party he and his friends had thrown for him. Sawyer missed him too, more than anything. Sure, Dew was happy now, with Hayden and Layla. He had confessed his year long crush on them only a few weeks ago at that amusement park they went to, and they took it as well as they possibly could. Dew was happy now, and he didn’t need Sawyer.

…But that didn’t mean Sawyer couldn’t still try. They were all polyamorous, surely they’d have room for one more, right?

Sawyer would tell Dew how much he means to him, like Dew had told him earlier. It would probably be awkward– because Sawyer was probably the most socially awkward person ever. But he couldn’t stand to hide his feelings any longer, even if it did ruin a lifelong friendship with his favorite person in the world. But knowing Dew, he’d never let that happen anyway! There was really nothing for Sawyer to worry about.

Sawyer ran through the streets back to Dew’s house, choosing to wait no more. If he wanted things to change, he would make them change himself.

Sawyer arrived at the front door, but hesitated when he heard talking coming from the other side. Sawyer wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but the voices sounded… off. He recognised Dew’s in an instant, of course, having spent his entire life listening to him talk about anything and everything. He knew Dew like the back of his hand, which made what he was hearing horrifying.

His friend sounded utterly terrified. He was crying– no, sobbing. Sawyer hadn’t heard Dew cry like that since his parents passed away years ago. Something terrible was happening and Sawyer was ready to break down the door just to comfort his best friend. But then he heard another voice, this one unfamiliar.

Sawyer put his ears to the door, trying to listen in. But the words were hushed and muffled. His heart sped up. What did this mean? What was going on in there? A very intense gut feeling stopped Sawyer from opening the door to find out. He backed away from the door when he heard the footsteps and voices getting closer. And when the doorknob started to twist open, Sawyer leaped into the bushes.

He cursed at himself. How anti-social could he be? To hide in the bushes at his friend’s house to avoid confronting him– while he was obviously going through something terrible, no less? Fuck, Sawyer wasn’t ready for any of this. It was best to just go back home.

He started crawling out of the bushes, heading towards the back of the house when he stopped in his tracks. He noticed the voices had stopped talking, but they were outside. Shit– did he get spotted? Sawyer cringed. How embarrassing…

Sawyer peaked over his shoulder and saw somebody facing away from him, walking towards the street. He crawled forward to get a closer look, stomach dropping in horror at what he saw.

It was Dew– it had to be! But he was drenched in blood and had two giant wings sticking out of his back. He was crying. But he looked so tired, resting his head against the shoulder of the person carrying him– someone Sawyer didn’t recognise.

Something was very, very wrong. Sawyer decided against confronting them, or going inside and making himself known to whoever else could be in there. He had to get out of there, or he felt like his blood would be added to the mix. Sawyer ran through the rain, back towards his home.

Sawyer and Dew had been best friends since childhood. Sawyer still remembered the day they met on the playground during recess. He couldn’t imagine a life without Dew. But now Dew was in trouble, and he was the only person who could save him. Sawyer knew something had been off with his friend the past few months, but he didn’t know what. Now, his suspicions were confirmed, and he was terrified.

The only thing Sawyer knew for sure, was that no matter what it took, he’d get his best friend back.

— 

fun fact: this was one of the first Dew and Anton scenarios i ever came up with, way way back before they even had names! hahahaha! anyway i think this is like the best thing i’ve ever written i hope u all liked it hehehe :)

taglist: @whumpinthepot @shywhumpauthor @whump-me-all-night-long @whump321 @fuckcapitalismasshole @sorry-i-spaced @theelvishcowgirl @catnykit @tettlod @delicateprincepaper @rejectedbytheempty @mijajaj @anothertawogsideblog @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox @parasitebunny @bottlecapreader @thecareandkeepingofwhumpees @inkwell-and-dagger @vidawhump

let me know if you want to be removed or added to the taglist!

[bunfloras]

The ender king making a public appearance and yoinking q!phil 👀 preferably in front of his friends and/or kids

He’d thought he’d never feel the chains again. Claws, so sickly-sweet, gentle in a way that betrays their greed. They cup his face, tilting his gaze away from the ones he loves.

He stares into amethyst.

He can’t breathe.

Someone’s calling to him. Their voice is lost to the wind—the distinction that makes them them stolen away. It could be his child, or his love, or his brother. Ender steals everything, in the end. Their faces, too, would be lost if he could look. Blurred like ink smeared across the pages, wet with the rain.

That’s what Ender does. He takes. Lives, memories, worlds—plucked away. Always taking, never giving, too greedy to ever have his fill.

And what’s his, he always finds again.

Come home, Angel.

It’s not his own voice that Ender uses. It’s young and soft, the voices that greet him each morning when he wakes and the ones that say goodnight each evening. It’s the voice he misses when the house is empty and the children are his alone to care for. It’s the voice he’s known for years—the one he’d know by his breath alone. It’s the voice he hears crying out in joyous triumph when he’s pinned beneath. It’s the voice he pushed away until it was too late.

He can’t hear them anymore. He can’t see them anymore. He thinks he wants to.

Come home.

And how could he ever say no to them?

[anomalys-taxonomy]

Four walls and cold floors and empty hands and none of it feels real. None of it feels real.

[nyastri]

My second attempt to contribute to Whumptober

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hyrule & Legend (Linked Universe) Additional Tags: Self-Harm, Derealization, Angst, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Anxiety Attacks, Really not sure if this is graphic but it's detailed, So be warned, Whump, Still not sure if this is technically whump but I hope so,  Series: Part 2 of The Nature of Dreams Summary:

Sometimes, Legend would think he was stuck in a dream again. Thankfully, he now had a method for verifying if he was in reality or not. But according to Hyrule, it's not a very "good" method.

Whumptober day 29: Troubled past resurfacing, "I only sink deeper the deeper I think"

[kckenobi]

Nowhere to Run

Whumptober Prompt No. 2: Caged, Cornered, Confrontation

Summary: For the first time since Qui-Gon’s death, Obi-Wan finds himself trapped behind red ray shields once again. But this time when the awful memories come, a friend is there to pull him back. (3.3k, cw: claustrophobia, derealization & panic attacks)

It should’ve been Obi-Wan’s mission. Obi-Wan’s alone.

He’d been a Knight for four months now. Four. And the Council had yet to give him a solo mission, insisting he and his new Padawan needed time to adjust to their sudden and rather significant life changes. Which, to be fair, they did. The transition hadn’t been easy, for the Padawan or the Master. 

Which was all the more reason Obi-Wan needed to get out of the Temple.

And all the more reason it took years of carefully cultivated Jedi patience to keep him from audibly groaning when the Council informed him that the mission would be his, and his Padawan’s, and…

"Yo, old friend! Been too long!”

Obi-Wan felt himself physically shrink.

Quinlan Vos.

"I can’t believe they put us together,” Quinlan continued, striding down the Temple hallway. He threw an arm around Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and Obi-Wan very patiently did not squirm away. At least…not immediately. “But I was getting tired of solo missions, you know?”

That makes one of us. “Quinlan. So…nice to see you.”

"I was just talking to Bant about the last time I saw you. Ages ago, before I was off-world for a year or so—right? When we went clubbing on the lower levels and you and that guy were—?”

"Um, yes. I remember.” Stop talking, stop talking, stop—

 But this was Quinlan Vos. Voracious and full of impulsive energy and, therefore—completely and utterly exhausting.

It wasn’t Quinlan’s fault. Obi-Wan often felt like this, around anyone, these days. He tried to ignore the way that the room swam, the way Quinlan didn’t exactly look real. He blinked, trying to place himself in this moment. Trying to make the universe seem concrete again, instead of something he was watching on a holoTV.

"So, you’ve been briefed by the Council?” he managed to say.

Quinlan nodded. “Sounds simple enough. Just some trade negotiations in the Mid Rim.”

Obi-Wan sighed. Simple enough indeed. Simple enough that Obi-Wan could’ve handled it alone. And gotten a much-needed break from…

"Anakin will be joining us,” Obi-Wan said. “My…Padawan.”

He still stumbled on the word. 

Quinlan was kind enough to pretend not to notice. 

Keep reading

[whumpsiedaisy]

Here's an idea: a whumpee who's either in a simulation (think tadc) or is some kind of character or idea come to life. Their Whumper/captor/creator can make them do whatever they want - they can have Whumpee's friends turn on them, make Whumpee kill someone, torture Whumpee far beyond what would be survivable - and then just roll it all back.

Whumpee knows it wasn't technically real - but they remember it all, saw it all, felt it all. It felt real. Was it real? They blame themselves: it wasn't real - why can't they let it go?

[zoe-and-quinn]

Falling Apart

TW: Panic attack, blood, mentions of past violence, derealization

Casey's hands were sticky.

His fingers stuck to the back of his neck, and the blood had a weight to it. Even when he was completely still, he felt it there.

Washing it off wasn't an option. That would include getting up from the corner, bringing his face off his knees, seeing the dry red stains on the concrete floors, and-

No. The corner was safe, the corner was his, if he stayed in the corner, he might be okay.

Maybe.

This was all too much, it was just too much, he couldn't do it-

Hopelessness had settled in his chest long ago, but now the weight was overwhelming, pushing on his lungs until every breath was a struggle.

His thoughts were frantic, nothing made sense. Everything felt wrong, but no words came to place the feelings.

No words to write in his journal.

No words to pray to whatever God might be listening.

Casey doubted he could speak even if there was someone there to talk to.

The door opened, but Casey didn't move. Maybe he started rocking a little harder. He didn't notice.

The rocking felt nice. It had a rhythm. It made sense. Nothing else did, not the footsteps coming closer, not the words his brain could hardly process.

They're alive.

You did a good job.

Let's get you back to your room.

Come on, get up.

Casey.

Look at me.

Look at me.

Casey, look at me.

Casey.

"Casey!"

His head snapped up, wincing at the bright florescent lights, terror shooting through his entire body. That voice meant pain, it meant Alexei was there, and he was going to hurt him, it was gonna hurt, and-

"Hey, hey, no no no no, it's ok Casey, don't-"

Alexei meant pain, and Casey pressed up against the wall, vision disjointed and jerky like an old stop motion movie, trying to get away, he couldn't do this anymore, please-

"Casey. Breathe." Alexei knelt in front of him, and Casey froze, squeezing his eyes shut. Alexei sighed. "You know what? I'm done. I don't want to deal with this. Come on, get up."

He grabbed Casey's arm, and he was up, walking, head spinning, world muffled, like he was underwater, like he was a ghost.

He floated to the door, floated inside.

Floated to the floor.

Floated far, far away.

He didn't respond to Georgia's frantic questions, didn't open his eyes to see where he was, didn't feel the cold concrete beneath him. He wasn't there, wasn't anywhere, not truly.

Nothing felt true, nothing felt real, nothing felt anything, except the beat of his heart, loud in his ears, the only thing tethering him to a world that existed.

That, and his hands were still sticky.

[elytrafemme]

one day i might want to make a master post with all of my AO3-user tips because (and this is a toxic trait of mine ik) i get REALLY irritated with a lot of ‘advice’ posts that just repeat the same basic information in a patronizing way without offering like... actually specific input. 

and i think ao3 as a whole is a relatively easy site to use you just gotta get the hang of it. in a sense i would really liken it to tumblr because one of the things about tumblr is that you can’t just join the site and then hit an explore page directly, that’s not really how this place works, you usually have to populate your dash with blogs. with ao3 it is significantly harder to just search up ships and works imo, it’s best if you already have favorite tags and how you do that is finding specific fics and then going from there and exploring in a branch off method. so once you use it for a while it’s extremely comfortable and remarkably convenient it’s just not really the easiest from the get go.

[itsb3anbug]

Febuwhump Day 2: Solitary Confinement

/// Scully didn’t know if she was alive or dead, or if she even existed. It made her think of a philosophical theory she’d studied in college. The idea that the only person who truly existed was the self and everything else was made up, solipsism. /// or…During Abduction Arc, Scully wakes up in a strange room, alone.

[bunfloras]

Okay okay. Phil thinking he's losing his mind in qsmp and maybe going to fit to confirm what he's seeing, only to realize it's not real.

Phil is alone.

Not real.

Fit is here.

Real.

Phil escaped.

Real…?

Phil sinks into the chair with a groan, face buried in his hands. It’s all he can manage just to breathe, his heart hammering against his ribs like a bird in a cage—

A cage, a cage.

How long has it been? Days? Months?

“Fuckin’ hell...”

Fit ‘tsks’ sympathetically beside him. Even that is too loud, almost as noisy in his ears as his own heart. It’s better than the silence, though. He hears a clatter as Fit digs through his chests, and then the tell-tale rattle of maracas. His heart stops for a moment, his lips forming Tallulah’s name before he thinks better of it.

She isn’t there. She hasn’t been there for a while. Phil doesn’t know how long.

Fit mouths an apology, shoving the instruments a little deeper into his chest. He hands Phil a bottle of water, though when he filled it, Phil doesn’t know. Time is skipping around like a scratched record, leaving everything hazy and disjointed. It has been for weeks.

Has it been weeks?

It’s too quiet. Everything’s too quiet.

He remembers quiet—remembers staying up for days with terracotta dust staining his knuckles and only the crows for company. Endless nights, an eternity alone with himself and the gods meddling in his life. Building, building, building because it was all he could do to stay sane. Things are different now, or so he tries to tell himself.

But the quiet is the same.

“Talk,” Phil rasps, his throat bone-dry. He clutches the water a little tighter. “…Please.” His thoughts are too loud. He needs something to drown them out.

Fit doesn’t answer.

“Mate, please.” Phil’s voice is breaking. Rough as sandpaper, fragile as glass. “Tell me this is—fuck. Tell me this is real.”

The cage’s bars rattle louder in his chest. The bottle in his hand is empty.

“Fit…?”

Was it ever really there?

[baldurs-writers-3]

Astarion: A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfic Rec List

This week, we have Astarion Centric fics! Check under the cut for a whopping seventeen fics all about our favorite vampire spawn, and as always, give them a comment and kudos if you like them!

The stars began to burn by peregrinefeathers (87k, Mature) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion/Gale

An AU where instead of having an orb lodged in his chest Gale got stuck in a book. Then when a vampire spawn opened that book he got stuck in that vampire spawn's head. This is the best thing that has ever happened to Astarion; within 15 minutes he's running out of the Szarr palace into the sunlight. Then adventures begin!

Reccer says: a slow burn, like bloodweave is obvious endgame but it takes a while to get there, and Astarion is written /so/ well

Uncrossed Lines by Asidian (1209, Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion & Wyll, Astarion & Halsin, Astarion & Karlach

Friends don't let friends get hurt and/or pressured into doing things they don't want to do

Reccer says: Just an incredibly sweet depiction of people recognizing Astarion's boundaries and helping to enforce them, whether he's expecting them to or not. I love it

Hydnellum Peckii by OctolingO (4403, General) Warnings: talks of Astarion's past but no gruesome details Pairings: none

Astarion is doing a great job hiding what he is from the party, until they reach the Underdark and he has nothing to feed on.

Reccer says: this is so angsty! i loved Gale being too curious for his own good and trying to help and be supportive, and all of Astarion's fears of getting kicked out or killed, bc nobody could ever be in his corner, and having anyone in a position of power apologizing *to him* like that's so foreign - this gave me so many feels!

caught between the dark and the dreaming by Raayide (18925, Teen) Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Pairings: Astarion & Friends

Marcus wants answers, and no one is going to give them to him, unless he forces them to. Astarion is the unlucky target forced to drink a truth serum.

Reccer says: Absolutely delicious whump and found family comfort afterwards

of death potential and death absolute by Raayide (39119, Teen) Warnings: Derealization Pairings: Astarion & Gale, pre-relationship

Astarion is never quite sure, until the moment Cazador lies dead before him, whether this entire adventure is anything more than an extremely vivid hallucination.

Reccer says: this story takes Astarion and twists him up into a little heartbreaking ball of a premise that makes him think everything is just a dream, and how desperate he is to stay in the dream rather than waking up. it retells most of the game with a tight focus and some lovely lovely characters scenes, everyone gets a moment in the spotlight!

Those left behind by Gally (73949, Mature) Warnings: None Pairings: Past Astarion/Karlach

What's Astarion to do after the Absolute is destroyed and the love of his life is now dead?

Reccer says: Lots of funny. Lots of sad. Lots of excellent characterization and slow but steady healing

All it Cost Me by HydieMurderBabe (38529, Explicit) Warnings: Ite explicit, very raunchy and Durge elements of rougher kinds Pairings: Durge X Astarion

Two traumatized nubbins heal from their pasts. Lots of sex and violence ensues.

Reccer says: Its funny, its raunchy, its detailed and most of all I feel like Im invested in the pairing

Collision Course by VakarianSyndrome (123444, Explicit) Warnings: No warnings. Tropes: Modern Girl in Baldur's Gate, found family Pairings: Astarion/F!OC

Set in Baldur’s Gate, this series follows Adelaide, a human woman from Earth, and her somewhat clumsy attempts at navigating this new and fantastical realm. In the process, she falls for Astarion, the pale elf, vampire spawn with level 100 rizz.

Reccer says: It starts out really funny, but then gradually gets serious where needed. The buildup between Astarion and the OC is spicy and sweet, and the smut delivers! And it's completed!

No Good End in View by not_whelmed_yet (60,797, ongoing, Mature) Warnings: Character death (temporary), torture Pairings: Astarion/Wyll/Karlach

Astarion doesn't get time to be terrified of the party, because Wyll cuts off what he sees as a feral vampire spawn's head long before he can try to seduce them. The only problem is that this doesn't kill him. And it continues to not kill him.

Reccer says: this is an achingly beautiful exploration of a team that gets off not so much on the wrong foot but on a freefall - each doing horrible things to each other in ways that all read perfectly understandable from their point of views, but have wretched lasting consequences. the author writes them so in character that I want to throttle them and fall in love all over again

What Could Have Been by Bella1433 (70000, Explicit) Warnings: There is mention of past sexual trauma, its Explicit, and goes into dark territory but not dead dove. Pairings: Named Tav X Astarion

Astarion's transformation into a vampire lord and Sima's fight to reclaim their lost love thrust them into a perilous dance of power, obsession, and redemption.

Reccer says: Its dark, rich, has a different tone and some of the most immersive writing I've read

the ghost of elturel by Raayide (4452, General) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion and Zevlor

Astarion and Zevlor meet, talk, hate each other, and hate themselves. There is nothing particularly of note about any of it.

Reccer says: Recognition of self in the other tied with some amazing introspection and metaphor

Circus of the dead by Ineadhyn (5995, Explicit) Warnings: Rape/Non-con, graphic violence, self-harm Pairings:

A dark horror circus AU with Astarion, Cazador, and his other spawns.

Reccer says: This is so beautiful, tragic, gripping, and I'm utterly obsessed with everything about it.

No Good Deeds by Garnett Gibson (39715, Explicit) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion/Tav

A young woman trying to be a good person gets corrupted by Astarion as they navigate the tadpole issue.

Reccer says: Delicious slow burn and creative deviations from canon.

The Lord and his new ways by FartasticDurge (26459, Explicit) Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Coercion, Manipulation, Abusive Relationships, Dissociation Pairings: Astarion/Tav

Ascended Astarion and Spawn Tav's post-game turbulent relationship from Tav's POV.

Reccer says: She struggles between doing what she thinks is right and obeying him, and seeing her process is interesting. In the latest chapter, they go to therapy, a unique twist for Ascended Astarion.

In Time by FartasticDurge (16927, Explicit) Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Pairings: Astarion/Tav, Astarion & Gale

Post-canon fic where Astarion is looking for a Tav who died and reincarnated into another person. Gale helps him find her, but things take an unexpected turn when they find her.

Reccer says: Astarion POV, a lot of D&D lore, the friendship between Gale and Astarion is interesting and supportive. Tav and Astarion's roles are reversed; he is being nice and she is suspicious of him, which is a nice twist with funny moments.

How Far You've Come by Garnett Gibson (5481, Explicit) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion/Tav

Astarion's obedient consort has come a long way, but sometimes she still steps out of line.

Reccer says: I liked it!

If Only For One Night by Terrormisu (682, Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Astarion/Tav

With their party always busy, Astarion finds himself longing for his little love.

Reccer says: It's a short sweet one shot that made me feel all warm and squishy inside. Hehe. But even the implied intimacy was steamy.

The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ!

Next week, we’ll be back with another character rec list, this time focusing on Family!

[nyastri]

I ended up doing some minor editing and some adding to my fic. I felt really rushed while writing this story, and I wasn’t completely satisfied with how it turned out. So I went back and hopefully made it better.

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Linked Universe - Fandom, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Hyrule & Legend (Linked Universe) Additional Tags: Self-Harm, Derealization, Angst, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Anxiety Attacks, Really not sure if this is graphic but it's detailed, So be warned, Whump, Still not sure if this is technically whump but I hope so Series: Part 2 of The Nature of Dreams Summary:

Sometimes, Legend would think he was stuck in a dream again. Thankfully, he now had a method for verifying if he was in reality or not. Who cares if this method isn't exactly "healthy"?

Whumptober day 29: Troubled past resurfacing, "I only sink deeper the deeper I think"

[whumpcereal]

i want to see will's eventual rescue!!! :D:D:D

Do you, @hold-him-down? Here you go...

part of the kennel. set a year after will and tommy's disappearance. tommy and annie have been free for nearly six months; will has been sold away to whumper extraordinaire, pat deangelis, whom you'll get to know here. master list here.

content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, depersonalization, derealization, pet whump, references to noncon, noncon body modification, references to organ harvesting, forced nudity, collars, electrocution, captivity whump, creepy whumper, conditioned whumpee, thoughts of death, adult language

will's rescue, he's coming home

There is some awareness. The mutt knows that he exists. He is real. And at the same time, he isn’t real at all. The pain he feels is real. The feeling of Pat’s knife blade against his skin, the grinding pressure of the bolts in his jaw, the wet heat that seeps from deep inside after he’s used; he feels it all. But then, he doesn’t. 

He isn’t–he can’t. He isn’t himself. There is no self to be. Not anymore. There is sensation and there is darkness and there is nothing in between. Everything happens to the body that used to belong to someone with a name, someone that people knew, but someone that no one cared very much about. No one will ever care for him again. That much he knows. It’s easier to retreat into the darkness than to entertain the thought that someone might love him. He’s not meant to think anyway. So he doesn’t. He won’t. 

There is a man with Pat when feeding time comes. The syringe is full of the usual brown slop, but the mutt doesn’t care. He takes what he can get. When Pat lifts the lid on his tank, he scooches dutifully onto his ruined back. He’s still bleeding from yesterday, but he can’t really feel it; so much of what used to be skin is scar tissue now. His nerves are dead. 

He thinks he might be dead soon too. He isn’t sure he knows how to look forward to it, but there’s something comforting, knowing that, soon, the darkness won’t be interrupted by any more pain. 

“You got a visitor, pup,” Pat says dryly. 

He kneels beside the mutt’s tank and reaches to cradle the boy’s head in preparation for his food. The mutt doesn’t make a sound; he’s not even sure that he can. When he can think, he idly wonders if his vocal cords are swiss cheese beneath the scabs and scars left by Doc’s bark collar. Doc never took it off, even after he’d wired Will’s jaw shut. Pat soldered the collar’s lock permanently closed; he did the same with the little locks that keep the mutt’s mitts in place too. 

The mutt hasn’t seen his own hands in he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t even remember what they look like. But he remembers the white hot shards of molten metal splattering against his skin. He hadn’t screamed, even then. He knew his purpose just as well as he knows it now: to suffer. That’s why Pat bought the mutt in the first place. Perhaps Will had been a whipping boy at Doc’s; here, the mutt is even less than that. 

Sometimes, when the mutt comes back to himself for a stretch of time, he misses Tommy, even though he knows it is wrong. He wonders what it would feel like to be used gently again, to know any kind of apology or affection, even at the expense of his body. 

He misses Annie even more. 

Not that it matters. Not that he can think about it. Just now, there is nothing but the feeling of Pat’s hand beneath his snaggled and greasy hair; nothing but the rubber tubing that Pat shoves between his cracked lips. 

The dim outline of another man hovers over Pat’s shoulder. For just a moment, the mutt’s eyes strain to see, but there’s only a faceless body, a voice that he doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. 

“He looks like shit,” the other man says. “There’s nothing to him.”

Pat laughs, and at once, the piston of the syringe shoves forward and a slosh of blended dog food and water hits the mutt’s teeth. The mutt sucks dutifully at the little tube, swallowing whatever he can. There won’t be any more until tomorrow. 

“Well, I didn’t think you were after him to win any beauty contests. It’s not his outsides you’re interested in.” 

The mutt closes his eyes. His insides hurt. Everything hurts, and the hurt means he’s still alive. He doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. He knows he should roll onto his stomach, that he should let the man feel his insides. He doesn’t have to think to know that.

But the other man drops into a squat next to Pat and peers into the tank. “Lemme see his teeth.” 

“His jaw’s bolted–”

“Yeah, I gathered. But I still want to see his teeth.” 

Pat pulls the syringe away, and the mutt doesn’t whine. His head falls back against the plastic bottom of the tank, and Pat’s hands reach for him again. Pat uses his dirty thumbs to pull the mutt’s chapped lips backward from his teeth, which are permanently joined by Doc’s wires and bolts. 

“I brush them every now and again.” 

It’s a lie, of course, but the mutt won’t disagree. If his teeth hurt, he hasn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, but what the fuck does it matter either way? 

Still, the mutt’s breath picks up. Why? The thought is tiny, like a knifepoint in the back of his mind, but it’s there. Why is this happening? Why won’t it stop? Why?

“I think he likes you,” Pat says with a soft laugh. He rubs his thumb over the mutt’s lips, catching the dry skin with the edge of a callous. “He’s getting all worked up.” 

“That’s not what I’m here for,” the guy grumbles back. “If he’s not healthy, it won’t be worth using him for parts. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gray. He’s, like, two seconds from sepsis. People don’t want kidneys that are already failing, you know?” 

The mutt jerks against the floor of the tank. His insides. The man doesn’t want to use him; he wants to gut him. The mutt shouldn’t care. He should just let it happen, let everything fade into darkness for good, but the thought is growing now, slicing through his gray matter. Why? Why me? Why isn’t it ever over? 

The mutt can’t breathe.

Pat dangles his arm over the edge of the tank. He’s still laughing. “Well, now! That’s the most excited I’ve seen him in weeks. Guess there’s still someone in there after all.” 

Someone. The mutt used to be someone, that’s true. He shakes his head, only just swallowing the moan of protest that he can feel building in his abused throat. He wishes he could open his mouth to gasp for breath. He tries. His jaw stays firmly shut.

“It doesn’t mean he’s healthy,” the guy shoots back. 

“And what do you care if he’s healthy? Does it matter to you if he dies on the table? You want the things that are keeping him alive, and damned if he isn’t still kicking. He’s got working lungs, doesn’t he? A heart that’s still beating. Just look at him!” 

The mutt closes his eyes and squirms against the plexiglass walls, pulling in as much breath as he can through his nose. He remembers a movie he watched with his father, when he still had a name. In the movie, a man’s beating heart is ripped from his bare chest. The mutt imagines his heart being ripped out; it must be small now, like the rest of him. Tough and ashen. 

He can’t feel his heartbeat, though. Maybe it isn’t there at all.

He is drowning. Pat tucks a hand against his throat in warning. The mutt has to get it together. He has to impress the new man. He has to be prepared to suffer and like it.

Pat slaps the mutt across the face, shoving the soft meat of his cheek into Doc’s hardware. The mutt whines without thinking. The collar deploys. His throat snaps and burns. He seizes against the walls of the tank, but when it subsides, he is breathing again. He feels his heartbeat.

He is still alive, and the new man is going to kill him. 

Another memory of his father. A book. To die will be an awfully big adventure. 

The mutt doesn’t want an adventure; if he could want anything, it would be relief. 

The new man leans over the tank. His face looks funny. 

“You’ve kept him this way the entire time you’ve had him?” the man asks.

The tank. That’s what he must mean. When the mutt was still Will, he’d laughed when Pat showed him the tank. It set off the collar, but he didn’t care. The whole thing was just ridiculous. Like something you’d put an overgrown lizard in. Glass walls, a mesh top. Just enough room for a body to lay flat. It made Tommy’s dog house look like a motherfucking palace. 

It’s a fucking coffin masquerading as a terrarium. It’s a coffin. His coffin. Will’s. Oh, God– 

He doesn’t want to think anymore. He wishes he could scream. 

“I take him out when the mood strikes me,” Pat replies, and the mutt freezes when Pat’s rough hand cups his face. “He’s still nice and tight, even after all this time. The doc trained him well. I will miss that once you take him to play Operation, but I’m sure I can find another boy somewhere. Maybe one whose jaw has more range of motion, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not interested in that,” the man snaps. 

“You’re pretty touchy for a guy who wants this little fucker’s organs on ice.” 

The mutt whines again, before he can stop himself. The collar responds. As he twitches and burns, he looks up at the man who is going to kill him. Their eyes meet. The mutt doesn’t understand the look on the guy’s face.

*

Derringer winces as the kid’s body stills in the tank. It’s not like he wasn’t prepared for this; it’s not like he’s new. He’s been on the task force for the better part of a decade, and he knows how depraved people can be. But this—everything that’s come out of Barker and his contacts, it’s next level shit. 

He looks down at the body in the glass tank. Christ, the kid looks barely human. He’s emaciated—of course he is; according to what the Mahoney boy told them, his jaw’s been wired shut for the better part of a year—and his gray skin stretches too tightly over his bones, some of which have been obviously broken and poorly set. And that’s concerning, but somehow not as concerning as the webwork of thin, deliberate scars that covers most of the boy’s naked body. He’s been defaced. Decorated. 

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies. 

He can’t imagine the pain. The boy must have spent hours under Pat DeAngelis’ knife. And when he wasn’t being slit open like a fish, it was worse. He can see the blood and pearly smudges that line the boy’s inner thighs. Derringer doesn’t want to think of the scars he can’t see.

There’s no question it’s Will Cartwright, but whatever resemblance exists between the photos and videos Derringer’s seen and the broken person in front of him is limited at best. How could it not be, after what the kid’s been through? 

Will watches him, brown eyes wide, and Derringer looks back. Their eyes meet for just a second. Hold on, kid, Derringer thinks. It’s almost over. You’re almost home.

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis. 

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

Derringer shrugs. He can’t make this seem too easy. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“So you can’t skin him and make a profit,” DeAngelis laughs. “Though I’d buy it back from you if I could. I’m a little disappointed you’re going to destroy all my handiwork when you cut him open.” The jackass rakes his nails over the boy’s chest, opening wounds Derringer hadn’t realized were fresh. The kid flinches but stays silent. DeAngelis nods his approval. “I’ve worked hard on him.”

“I can see that,” Derringer says. 

“But he’s outlived his usefulness, and I thought, waste not, want not, you know?”

Will’s eyes slip closed again. Derringer wonders how much the kid really hears, if he even has it in him to be frightened anymore. He hopes not. It will make this next part easier. 

“Sure, waste not. But he is in rough shape. And you can’t personally guarantee his health, so—“

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

“I’ll give you five grand for him as is.”

It’s an insult, and they both know it. Will probably knows it too, if he understands any of what’s going on around him.

“We said ten. And you know you’ll make more off of all his bits and pieces. That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know that. He might not have anything viable. He might die before our people open him up. He’s practically dead already.” Derringer ignores the twist in his stomach; it’s too close to the truth. “If we can move his heart and lungs at least, I’ll kick you back a percentage.”

Will turns his head suddenly, and a tear slips down his soiled, sunken cheek. 

Derringer sucks in a quick breath and forces himself to look away. He’s still in there. The kid is still alive, even if he is in pain. 

Just a little bit longer, I promise. 

*

The mutt wants to die, but at the same time, he doesn’t. 

He knows what the new man is planning. He understands. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he knows he doesn’t want it to happen. Staying alive isn’t really worth it, but it is. It is. Because maybe–maybe this isn’t forever. 

It’s a stupid thought. He hasn’t had a thought like that in he doesn’t know how long. This is why he shouldn’t think. He should let the darkness take him. He should let the pain slip away. 

But the pain that’s going to come before–he can’t stomach it. 

Okay, poor choice of words. 

Behind his closed eyes, he imagines himself cut open, his scarred skin peeled away from his chest like flaps. He can almost feel hands reaching inside to grab the things that are keeping him alive; he knows he will feel it when the time comes. Fuckers who do things like this, they get off on the pain they inflict. He will feel himself being disassembled piece by piece. 

It’s more than he can bear. 

“Fifty percent of his proceeds,” Pat is saying. 

“Jesus Christ, you must think I was born yesterday. He’s not worth fifty percent.” 

The mutt isn’t worth anything. There’s nothing he can do to keep Pat from going through with this. 

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back. 

The mutt blushes, but the men aren’t looking at him now. 

He doesn’t make a sound–the two shocks he’s already had were plenty–but he starts to rock his body gently back and forth. He’s got to roll over. He isn’t much to look at, he knows, but Pat likes to look at his handiwork, likes to know the mutt is his creation. It excites him. And if the mutt can just get Pat excited, remind him of how good he is–

“Twenty-five? I’m giving you a fucking treasure trove here. You don’t have to hunt for any of the goods; he’s got them all. I should be charging you a fucking finder’s fee, not knocking down the price. I paid a pretty penny for this little mutt; he’s worth more than five grand and a measly twenty-five percent.” 

Fuck, the mutt should be touched, shouldn’t he? He’s worth something after all. 

“What the fuck is he doing?” 

The mutt doesn’t stop moving. He’s almost made it. 

*

Derringer bites back a gasp. This is worse than the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter let on. Of course, they don’t know what’s happened since Will was sold away.  His back is completely destroyed. The thick, ropey scars from Barker’s bullwhip are as bad as he expected, but what DeAngelis has done–it’s like he’s traced every one of the boy’s veins with his knife. It’s a root system of carnage. It looks like DeAngelis reopens the wounds at will; there are a few still weeping. The smell is gut churning. 

DeAngelis laughs. “Awww, pup! You want to show the nice man what else you have to offer, don’t you?”

The kid forces himself onto wobbling hands and knees; Derringer doesn’t know how he manages it. He dips his head and shoves his bony backside a little higher. His hips are a mess of black and blue fingerprints, and a silicone plug swells from between his red-striped buttocks.

“I told you, I’m not interested in that,” Derringer spits. Christ, how is this kid still alive? 

DeAngelis sighs and nudges the plug with his fingers, and Will dutifully grinds backward. Derringer has to fight not to look away. The poor fucking kid. 

“No, mutt,” DeAngelis says, swatting softly at the boy’s naked ass. “That���s done now. We had a good ride, but it’s getting a little sad, isn’t it? And besides, apparently we’ve got to protect the integrity of the merchandise if I want any return on my investment.” 

Derringer has been doing this for years. He sees people at their lowest points on a regular basis. But damn if his heart doesn’t feel like it’s breaking when Will throws his body back against DeAngelis. Will’s dark, greasy head swoons against DeAngelis’ chest, his brown eyes pleading where his mouth cannot. Tears slip down his cheeks, but he only presses himself closer to DeAngelis. It’s a grotesque thing to watch: the kid is begging to be used with every ounce of strength he’s got left. 

How do you ever get over that, Derringer wonders? Will is begging for pain because he thinks it will keep him alive. What happens when that stops? When the pain isn’t a memory, but something that’s carved into your skin for everyone to see? Tomorrow, when Will Cartwright is safe in a hospital, how will he live with what Barker and DeAngelis have done to him? How will he live knowing the things he’s had to do? 

Will’s hips press backward again—almost instinctively, Derringer thinks—but DeAngelis only shoves him away, letting the boy fall face first into the tank. 

“I said no. Don’t fool yourself, mutt. You’re no prize. That’s why you’re here in the first place. If anyone had wanted you, you would never have ended up with me. I don’t want you. I never did. I just needed something to do, and I’ve done all I can with you. Now it’s time to let this nice gentleman do all he can. At least now you’ll be doing something useful, huh?”

Will’s decimated back heaves with a silent sob. Derringer’s hand clenches into a fist at his side. 

“If you don’t want him,” Derringer says, “then you should be willing to let him go for five.”

“7500.” 

“Six.”

“Seven, and forty percent of whatever you get for his bits and pieces.”

“Seven and thirty.” Even as he says it, Derringer has to remind himself that Will Cartwright will still have a beating heart days from now, that there will be no percentage for his bits and pieces at all.

DeAngelis looks down at the naked boy with impassive eyes; the open wounds on the kid’s back shine under the fluorescent light.

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly. 

DeAngelis leans over the tank. “Did you hear that, mutt?” he says to Will’s back. “It’s time for you and I to say goodbye.”

And then, Will shrieks. The sound is more animal than human, lodged somewhere deep in the boy’s scarred throat, and when the sensor on his collar picks it up, there’s a cruel snap of electricity. But Will only screams again. And again. And again. 

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

DeAngelis only shakes his head and heaves the mesh lid back onto the tank. Will’s body thrashes against the glass walls of his prison, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even as the collar pops against his throat.

He thinks he’s fighting for his life. There is a part of Will Cartwright that still believes he’s worth saving, that wants to go on living even if it means being trapped in DeAngelis’ fucking tank until he dies.

Hold onto that, kid. You’re so close. Don’t let go now.

But still, Derringer knows that a part of Will Cartwright will stay trapped here, even when the rest of him is safe. The kid’s real fight is just beginning. 

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Derringer says. “His heart—“

DeAngelis kicks the side of the tank. “He’ll pass out soon enough; it’ll save you the trouble of drugging him for the trip.”

Derringer wants to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, but it isn’t part of the plan. The others are waiting outside. DeAngelis will be in custody in minutes. He will never be able to hurt anyone like this ever again. He and Barker and all of their disgusting contacts are going to rot in prison. They are going to pay.

But it doesn’t mean Derringer doesn’t want to inflict some pain himself. For the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter. For Justin Huang, whose husband is still lost somewhere overseas. For every soul they’ve pulled from the depths of hell since Barker’s operation was blown open—and for the ones they were too late to save. 

But right now, all he wants is to make DeAngelis suffer for Will. 

But Derringer is a professional. He manages to smile, even as Will’s close-mouthed sobs keep coming. 

“Well, thanks.”

*

Will can’t hear everything they’re saying. He can’t hear anything but his own screams, really—it turns out, when you can’t open your mouth to scream, the sound just echoes in your own head. Still, it feels good to hear some version of his own voice. To know he’s there, even if it’s only for a few more hours. 

And he is there. Will is there. The mutt is too, but he’s already slipping into the recesses of Will’s brain, silent where Will is screaming. Will will scream until he can’t. He will scream and he will fight until his heart is cut from his chest, and they cannot stop him. 

He doesn’t notice when Pat locks the mesh top on the tank. He doesn’t quite feel it when the tank is hoisted onto a push cart. He doesn’t care when he starts to roll away. He doesn’t stop screaming. 

The pain from his collar dulls with every shock. It’s no worse than anything else he’s suffered, and it matters less now. He gurgles against the electric current, but he doesn’t stop himself from making noise. He won’t give Pat the satisfaction. He won’t give the new guy a break. He gets to decide how this goes, even if it’s the last decision he ever makes.

Will rides the electricity until his whole body shakes, and he beats the sides of the tank with his shoulders, his elbows, his heels. They ignore him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

His jaw aches to open, and he feels himself fighting against the bolts and wires that Doc installed all those months ago. Nothing budges, but he pretends that it does. Another throat-shredding scream, another jolt of electricity. Over and over and over again. 

With every snap of current, Will lets himself think of the people he’s leaving behind. No one wants him, not like this, and he gets it, he does. But he is himself for the first time in a long time, and he isn’t going to waste it. 

He screams and the collar lights up, and when he closes his eyes, he sees Annie. She is smiling at him, her big brown eyes crinkled at their corners. She reaches for him with her little hand, and Will tries to reach back. His mitt brushes the mesh top of the tank. Annie fades, and he screams again. 

Tommy is there when the shock comes, wrapped in his favorite hoodie and leaning against something Will can’t see. Tommy’s head tips back, and he laughs. He is happy. But looking at Tommy hurts, and Will screams, and he is relieved when the shock sends Tommy away. 

Will’s father takes Tommy’s place, young and a little sad, like he was when Will’s mother took off. Bud? he says, but somehow, he doesn’t say it at all. He looks so tired. Bud, I miss you so much. I’m sorry—

Will screams so long and loud that the shock stops before the sound does. He wilts on his bloody back, exhausted. He’ll go again, he will, he just needs a minute—

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

The tank isn’t moving anymore. Will can’t see Pat or the new man. All he can see is a metal ceiling beyond the mesh top. It’s dark around him, but there is light, just outside his range of vision. He doesn’t scream again. He stills. He waits. He listens.

“Get his hands behind his back and make sure they’re real fucking tight.”

It’s the man. The man who is going to kill him. Will doesn’t understand. He tenses against the glass bottom of the tank, his bloody skin smooching awkwardly along the smooth surface. His mouth twitches, as if to bite his lip, but too late, he remembers that he can’t. The pain starts to build again, needling at him from every direction. Still, Will strains to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the voices, even as the world begins to gray.

“You fucking son of a bitch—you’re a Fed—“

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, DeAngelis. Turns out, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Not that it will matter too much once my team sweeps your depraved little Xanadu here. I only wish they’d put you in a fucking tank.”

Will’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. The pain washes over him again, and his atrophied muscles seize. He groans, but the collar doesn’t react.

“Get him in the car. I’ll help the kid. Make sure the ambulance is en route.”

The floor beneath Will stutters a little, and then the man is kneeling over the tank. 

“Will?” 

Will shakes his head, trying to force his eyes back open, trying to understand. No one’s called him by his name in so long. How does the man know his name? 

The mesh disappears from overhead. The man leans over the tank. His face is dark and stubbled in the dim light, and Will presses his body somehow flatter against the bottom of the tank, even though it hurts. Somehow, he finds the strength to scream again, and the snap of the shock flares against his throat. 

“Will, no–no, kid, I promise, everything will be okay.”  

The man’s voice is suddenly soft. He leans closer, and Will can see that he has blue eyes. The man doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Will, my name is Special Agent Christopher Derringer. I’m here to take you home.” 

Home. Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. It can’t be true. The man is lying. Will doesn’t have a home. No one wants him. How could they? He needs Pat. He needs someone to tell him what to do. 

“Will? You’re safe now.” 

But Will isn’t safe. Everything hurts so badly, and he is so tired. He knows he should keep fighting, that he shouldn’t believe what this man is saying, but he can’t do this anymore. It’s too much. 

His eyes close, and he lets himself go. When they open–if they open–maybe he will understand. 

*

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there. 

“Christ almighty,” one whispers under her breath. “The poor kid. How on earth–” 

Derringer nods, standing by as they carefully lift Will from the fucking tank. They lay him gently on the gurney. His skeletal body looks too small on the blue sheets. One of the paramedics covers him with a space blanket, and for a moment, the boy looks like he must have as a child; for all that his body bears the marks of Barker’s and DeAngelis’ cruel treatment, his face is untouched, innocent. 

Well, almost, Derringer amends, thinking about the bolts and wires that have kept the boy silent for the better part of a year. But like this, it almost looks like he’s just fallen asleep; like maybe, everything that’s happened to him was just some kind of fucked up nightmare. 

It isn’t, of course, and when Will wakes, he’ll know it too. 

Derringer follows the gurney to the ambulance, and he prays that the kid will stay asleep as long as he can. What comes next might be some kind of relief, but it certainly won’t be easy. 

The heavy doors close, and Derringer digs in his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls for the number, and he ignores the clenching in his gut as it rings. 

“Mr. Cartwright? Agent Derringer. We’ve got him. He’s coming home.” 

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

[arrrmagedonnn]

Well i decided to translate my lore article into English soooo I hope you will enjoy it!! Also feel free to ask some questions about them or maybe art requests with them, I will be so happy to answer!

CW: legal slavery, slave whump, conditioned whumpee, self-harm, non-con, abuse (I dont know what to add but I hope you understand vibe)

1. A bit of world building 

The setting is an alternative Europe of the 70s-80s (historical events are different, this is just to understand the general atmosphere and the development of technology). The economy is based on a system of owning and selling slaves, and is under strict control –you can legally buy/sell a slave only through the Central Market, which is located in every city. Market belongs to the Formelle family, which takes a large percentage from each completed sale, and due to this is one of the richest in the country.

The market is divided into several sections, each sells slaves of different “quality". Every Friday there is a Big Auction where exclusive slaves are sold, which cannot be bought just like that. They are considered more elite because of their physical attractiveness, learning to write/read and other skills. On the rest of the week, in the evenings, Small Auctions are held, where slaves are exhibited that have not been sold for a fixed price during the day. The Big Auction and Small Auctions are held on Monday and Wednesday by Mark, on all other days by Fran.

2. Ethan

Ethan is a slave, he was born after his mother (also a slave) was raped by her master. She worked in a large estate, with many servants besides them, so for the first couple of years they did not pay much attention to Ethan, but the more he grew, the more he began to resemble his father in appearance. So, in order to avoid a scandal and the disclosure of the rape story, at the age of 11, Ethan was resold to the other side of the country, to a farm.

He lived and grew up there until he was 17. Everything was quite good – Ethan was not given too hard work and most of the time he was not noticed at all, so he often secretly went for walks in the woods, to the river, and other interesting places near the farm. On one of these walks, he accidentally went a little further than usual, got lost and for two days couldnt find the way back. When he returned, the owners thought he was trying to escape, so they beat him up and then resold him to work in a factory.

It was a textile factory and the conditions there were much worse – constant work for 15-17 hours a day, disgusting living conditions, lack of normal food, and in case of disobedience (which was just weariness), Ethan was punished by being locked in a small dark punishment cell (after that he had a phobia of enclosed dark spaces). At such moments, he began to have a strong derealization, and in order to somehow cope with this, Ethan did not come up with anything better than stealing and carrying sharp cutting objects (needles, blades, pins, scissors) and cutting/stabbing his hands, because the pain helped him return to reality and don't start going crazy.

Ethan worked at the factory for about a year until Mark took him away from there.

By nature, Ethan is modest and intimidated, he tries to be as obedient as possible, even to the detriment of his needs. He has low self–esteem and considers himself fundamentally bad, wrong and broken, and thinks that all violence in his direction is right and deserved.

And some facts:

- Ethan can't read or write, but he can count to 30 and tell the time by the clock.

- Ethan constantly hears voices accusing and insulting him, and he is generally prone to visual, auditory and tactile hallucinations, as well as bouts of derealization.

- Ethan considers ignoring and loneliness much worse than any physical punishment.

- His favorite dessert is sugar cubes

3. Mark

Mark is one of the children of the Formelle family. Thanks to his mother, who indulged his every whim, he grew up spoiled and selfish, used to having everything in the world revolve around him. Because of his character and behavior, his peers did not want to be friends with him, so he either bought the friendship of other children for money, or was surrounded by slaves of his own age (he accidentally killed one of them during a game by throwing a stone at his head, but the next day they just brought a new one to Mark).

After graduating from high school, Mark tried to study at a medical university, but barely mastered the first year. Instead of studying, he preferred going to loud parties, drinking expensive cocktails in bars, going to boutiques with branded clothes and finding other ways to spend his parents' money. After some time, he was forced to work as an auctioneer in order to bring at least some benefit to the family business, but even so he has a lot of time for endless parties and bars.

Since childhood, Mark had a noticeable craving for violence, so when he got older, Mark began to use slaves, originally intended for sale, for his “personal use”. Mark's main fetish is cutting, so that all his slaves either died from wounds and blood loss, or became mutilated to the point that they could not move normally, and their appearance made them unsuitable for resale. Such waste continued for a long time, but in the end, Mark was forbidden to take expensive elite slaves, and instead take cheaper and already used ones, such as Ethan. By the way, Mark chose Ethan for himself only because he saw fresh cuts on him, and he was very amused by how he was hurting himself.

By nature, Mark is very mannered, arrogant, likes to be the center of attention and is fueled by adoration for himself from other people. He has an antisocial personality disorder, so he does not feel empathy for others, except for feigned pity. He likes to control everything and hates it when things don't go the way he intended.

And some facts:

- Mark uses makeup – concealer, concealer, he draws himself small arrows and a mole under his eye, because he heard that it makes the face more symmetrical.

- Mark is a sadomasochist and have ASPD

- His favorite dessert is macaroons

3.1 Mark and Ethan

Ethan lived with Mark for two years, and Mark very quickly won Ethan's love and affection through emotional manipulation. Compared to life at the factory, life with Mark was easier and calmer for Ethan, even despite the constant violence in his direction. Mark convinced Ethan that the process of making cuts makes him “beautiful“ and ”full-fledged", all punishments are done “for the good". In addition, beatings, sex, cuts and forced self-harm always alternated with affection, care and words of love, which made Ethan want violence against himself, because after it there would be a pleasant, comfortable part.

Their "relationship" lasted until Mark thought it was a funny idea to fuck Ethan in the eye socket. Before that, Ethan was already physically weak due to the constant mutilation, and after that he finally broke down, constantly just lying, sleeping, crying, and did not show the same emotions as before. Mark tried to sell him, but he couldn't find anyone willing to buy the exhausted, half-dead one-eyed slave, so Mark gave Ethan to his friend, Rafe.

4. Raf (Rafael)

Rafael is a childhood friend of Mark, but unlike him, he does not come from a rich family. His father left the family, Francesca's mother worked a lot and almost did not raise her son, so from childhood Raf was more serious and independent than his peers.

Raf's mother and Mark's father communicated closely, so the children spent a lot of time with each other. Raf was the only one whose friendship Mark couldn't buy, and who didn't suck up to him because of his status. They often quarreled, fought, reconciled, fought again, but in the end they remained close friends for many years to come. Rafe was and remains the only one whom Mark considers his equal, and whose opinion and attitude he cares at least a little.

After graduating from school, Raf dreamed of going to medical school with Mark, but he failed to enroll in budget education, and there was not enough money for paid education. Instead, Raf graduated as an economist and got a job at a regular office position.

By nature, Raf is quite balanced, restrained and serious. He suffers from workaholism and insomnia. Long-term communication with people quickly exhausts him, it is difficult for him to make new friends and even acquaintances.

And some facts:

- In high school and before the first years of university, Rof dated Mark's cousin, Lillian. They parted on quite a good note, realizing that they were not suitable for each other.

- Raf is always haunted by the thought that he is not doing "enough" – not working hard enough, not trying hard enough, and in an attempt to feel satisfied with the completion of some project, he can work continuously for several days in a row.

- Raf has a british cat, Lala, which he picked up from the street (in fact, she went into the house herself and refused to leave). Lala is not very sociable and grumpy, often bites and scratches if you try to pet her.

- Rafe likes to watch true-edge shows on TV and read detective stories, in which the reader is invited to find the killer along with the main character.

- Collects stamps and smoking pipes. - He cooks well, but because of work, he has almost no time for it.

4.1 Raf and Mark

Raf and Mark still communicate well and often, despite the difference in characters. After Rafe broke up with Lillian, Mark suggested that he start dating, but after the recent breakup, Rafe agreed only to a "relationship without a relationship" – they have sex, romance, but they do not call an official relationship.

4.2 Raf and Ethan

As I said above, Mark decided to give Ethan to Raf. Rafe himself has been extremely negative about the slavery system since childhood and does not support it, so he agreed to take Ethan only because he would not have lived long in any other place because of his weakened condition. Ethan will need a long time to get used to the new conditions, especially in contrast after living with Mark. For example, Ethan is used to being punished for any oversight, and if he doesn't, then he needs to harm himself on his own, and Rafe won't understand the reasons for this behavior for a long time.

weeeeell thats all!! I know that the article is a bit crooked and my English is not so good, but I tried my best!!

[ectoentity]

Acid in the Veins

Fandoms: Danny Phantom, Young Justice (Comics), DC Comics

Rating: Mature

Words: 4,677

Chapter: 1/?

Characters: Tim Drake, Original Antagonists

Additional Tags: Competent Guys in White | GIW (Danny Phantom), Tim Drake Whump, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Blood and Gore, Torture, Body Horror, Human Experimentation, Demons, Violence, Dehumanization, Derealization, Ghost Hunger (Danny Phantom), Immolation, seriously guys this is gonna be rough

Summary: Tim thought he was going on a recon mission to the site of a meta trafficking operation. It was supposed to be routine: in and out in an hour tops, the bad guys unaware he'd even been there.

He wound up in way over his head. The GIW is both far more competent and sadistic than he gave them credit for. Captured with no hope of rescue, Tim finds his humanity slowly slipping away.

(Read on AO3)

[quietwingsinthesky]

sunday whump day yippee!!! totally unrelated to anything at all in my life, perhaps koschei having a panic attack or derealization episode? no idea if that’s whumpy enough, could be fun tho!

it absolutely is whumpy enough. i can make it so. derealization/depersonalization episode coming right up.

There is someone in Koschei's bed.

It's not Koschei, it can't be Koschei, because he's too old for this. Too old to be curled in a ball and shivering. Too old to flinch at the drumbeat pounding in his ears, behind his eyelids, between gums and teeth, filling up his whole body.

The person in Koschei's bed puts his hands over his ears, which is another reason he is not Koschei. Koschei isn't so stupid. He'd never believe that would block out the noise. He'd never bother to try. If the person on the bed wasn't so useless, he'd get up and go to class. Even Theta—perpetually late, perpetually absent Theta—is going to notice.

No. No, they won't. Because Theta would only notice if Koschei missed class, and the thing on the bed isn't Koschei. It's a pitiful, sobbing waste of space.

Koschei is better than it. He knows he is. He has to be. All it does is whine and beg for the noise to stop. It doesn't understand that the drums chose Koschei. They make him so special, so important. So much more than that thing in his bed that looks like him and sounds like him and cries like him.