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whumpsday · 10 months

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Petrichor #1

Writing Masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, buried alive, begging, rescue, asphyxiation, religious whump, death wish, starvation, claustrophobia, sensory deprivation, touch starvation, comfort, harming self for vampire feeding purposes, possible historical inaccuracies

Whumpmas in July Day 15: Buried Two Weeks of Whump Day 14: Coffin

this is vampire whump, but it does NOT take place in the K&J universe! i wanted to play around with some vampire mythology that i chose not to incorporate into K&J lore.

thank you to @lost-in-labradorite-halls for beta-reading and helping my clueless jewish ass with the christian bits and generally inspiring this piece via the wonderful vampire torture you regularly concoct!!

also have a song:

Petrichor's endless, airless torment was punctuated once again by the sound of a shovel entering the earth.

It was worth noting strictly because anything was worth noting down here. The digging wasn't out of the ordinary: it was a cemetery, of course.

This time, it sounded close. Every time it sounded near, Petrichor dared let himself hope it might reach him, though he knew such a thing was absolutely ridiculous. People dug graves to bury bodies, not exhume them.

It was utterly maddening. Someone was so close, another soul- a soul, rather, given he did not possess one any longer- and he was unable to make even the slightest peep to alert them to his distress, all oxygen having vacated his tiny box what must have been decades ago, if not centuries. At least he didn't require air anymore.

A tear rolled down his cheek at the thought, his body unable to conjure up more than that. He could not even raise an arm to tap on the wood of the coffin, the weakness having deprived him so effectively. Petrichor listened to the digging longingly, laid still and silent in his grave, the corpse he was.

I'm here. I'm still here, after all this time. Please, it can't be like this forever. I care not whether I'm rescued or slain, but please, someone put an end to it. Dear Lord, I know I'm not one of Your creatures any longer, but please help me.

As if answering his prayer, the digging slowly grew closer as the hours passed. It was odd: usually there would be a bustle of people around, and only one grave would be dug. But he could hear nothing but the digging, and it almost sounded like multiple graves. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen the family owning the plot next to his.

It was disappointing, in a way. The voices, though he could hardly make them out from under the earth, were the only human connection he had left in his horrible fate. Sometimes, he could even make out bits and pieces of the priest's sermon, which never failed to make him cry. He could not even utter a prayer aloud in his wretched state, if the Lord would even have him as he now was. And clearly, He wouldn't.

Petrichor's melancholy thoughts were swiftly interrupted when the sound of digging grew yet closer. Much closer.

As if it were right above him.

Oh dear Lord, please. This could finally be it, couldn't it? If his grave were to be exhumed, for some odd reason?

The shovel knocked against wood. Petrichor could feel it reverberate through the coffin, the first physical sensation interrupting the suffocating stillness in longer than he could know.

He wanted to weep for joy. It was finally happening, it was over. His prayers had finally been answered!

Someone opened the coffin, trading the wooden finish he'd stared at for so long for a starry sky.

Petrichor gasped for breath, his first in what may as well have been lifetimes, smelling of freshly-turned earth. It was nearly impossible to move, his muscles stiff and dry, but he was able to breathe through his nose, and open his mouth just a small amount. It was more than enough: he had air, his lungs no longer drowning.

"Holy fucking shit!" His rescuer tried to jump back, but they were inside his grave with him, and space was sparse.

It was difficult to move his eyes, but he managed it, fixing them on the first person he'd seen since his funeral. They looked young, around his age when he'd been buried or perhaps younger, dressed in an androgynous black cloak. Their clothes and face all ranged from speckled with dirt to absolutely caked in it.

Petrichor stared at them with wild, desperate eyes, and with fresh air in his lungs, made what little sound he could manage: a strangled, pleading cry.

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." His rescuer continued to take the Lord's name in vain and spew profanities, but Petrichor couldn't bring himself much to care. All that mattered was getting out of his coffin, the end of his suffering. But he was unable to move.

His rescuer seemed to recognize this as well, their string of expletives tapering off as they tilted their head, staring back.

They glanced up at his gravestone. "Here lies Petrichor Adams," they read out. "1797 to 1820."

They looked back down at him, squinting. "What the hell are you?"

Petrichor whined again, a tear making its way down his face once more.

His rescuer leaned in, their initial shock having given way to a surprising lack of fear. They knelt beside him, peering at his face. "You sure got some chompers in there, huh? What, like...?" They looked out over the edge of the hole, like someone would come out and announce it was all a trick, but no one did.

Petrichor could do nothing but stare pleadingly.

His rescuer tapped him on the cheek. The first touch he'd felt in forever, it almost tingled. They tilted his head to the side, exposing the scars he supposed must still mark his neck: the fangs that had condemned him to this fate.

"You supposed to be a vampire or something?" they asked, incredulous. Having picked up that he could not reply, they continued on. "Well, fuck. What, you need blood or something, is that it? Oh, no no no. I've seen the movies, I've played the video games, alright? I am not fucking with this." They produced a small rectangular object from their pocket, angling it at him in various positions and tapping it oddly before replacing it in their cloak.

The soaring hope in Petrichor's long-dead heart crashed against the rocks. He could not understand some of what the digger said, but the sentiment was clear: he would receive no help.

He would remain locked in his prison.

Petrichor's chest quaked with dry sobs. He trained his eyes upward, thankful that his wretched body could not produce tears very quickly, as his vision remained unblurred when he took in the stars. The sight of something beautiful, one last time.

The digger sighed, glancing at his headstone once more.

"Well. It does say you were beloved," they remarked. "Beloved son. They wouldn't've put that there if you were some bloodsuckin' serial killer, huh?"

Petrichor made no further attempt to look away from the stars, but allowed himself to hope again. Perhaps he would be allowed out, if the digger would take pity on him.

His rescuer shook their head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

They produced a small blade, rolled up their sleeve, and sliced themself across the back of the arm. They positioned the wound just above his mouth, allowing their blood to drain across his tongue.

Petrichor had never tasted blood before- not posthumously, that was. He had been buried shortly after his death, without time to fall prey to his new, monstrous nature. It was nothing like blood had been as a human: the coppery taste when he'd split his lip roughhousing as a child. This, this was everything. It was the sweetest honey, it was the finest glass of red wine, it was the flavorful broth of his mother's pot roast, it was life itself flowing into his veins.

Slowly, the muscles in his body lost their stiffness, and he could move once more. He raised his head up toward the source of the lifeblood, but his savior placed their boot firmly on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor of his coffin.

"Think that's enough for now. Don't wanna get woozy." They tore a piece of cloth from their cloak, wrapping the wound. "Cat still got your tongue, buddy?"

"P-please," Petrichor rasped, his voice weak from disuse, "Kind... sir? I cannot go on like this. Whatever fate you'd bestow upon me, I care not, so long as I'm not forced to remain inside this box. I am a vampire, it's true, but I had never consumed even a drop of blood before tonight. I mean no harm. Please allow me to leave this coffin." His voice broke, his words coming out squeaky. "I was human once, too."

Desperate begging. He'd never thought his life would come to this, but he supposed it never had. His life had ended long ago.

The boot was removed from his chest.

"Alright, Petrichor Adams, take it easy," his rescuer said. "I'm not gonna leave you down here no matter what you are. That'd be crazy fucked up." They extended a hand. "Robin."

Petrichor took their hand, his own shaking. "Thank you so very, very much. You've saved me from an unbearable fate."

Robin pulled him up to standing, his bones creaking with the unfamiliarity of movement. "Huh. It's almost like you time traveled or something. Says you died when you were 23, that's like, practically my age. Guess the 200 years in between don't really count."

Petrichor wasn't sure what came over him, but he burst into tears instantly. His body had no trouble with it now, two centuries' worth of crying flowing forth all at once as he bawled.

"They count!" he wept. "I was down there, I- I was down there the entire time! I did not sleep!"

"Alright!" Robin agreed with haste. "Okay, grandpa, you're 226 then, whatever's good. Jeez, c'mon, you don't gotta cry. It's gonna be okay."

They rubbed their thumb over his hand, and he gasped from the sensation. After so long, every touch felt one thousand times stronger than it was.

Petrichor attempted to pull himself together. "Yes, yes of- of course."

"And listen, you gotta be quieter. We're reeeeally not supposed to be out here right now." Robin hopped up, pulling Petrichor up with them.

A knapsack laid at the foot of his grave, varied pieces of jewelry and a few golden teeth visible from the top.

His rescuer was a graverobber and a thief. But Petrichor knew his situation was desperate, and chose to say nothing. He was no better, given what he was now.

Robin noticed the direction of his gaze nonetheless, offering him a mischievous smirk. "Yeah, Graverobbin' Robin, that's what they call me. And by they I mean me, 'cause no one knows I do this." They began shoveling dirt back into his grave. "Good thing I do, though. Never thought I'd save a vampire on my side hustle, but life throws you curveballs, I guess. You know baseball?"

"I do not, I'm afraid," Petrichor replied, watching mesmerized as his coffin became entombed once more.

"Bro, how are you gonna die in Boston and not know baseball? I gotta take you to a game sometime. Literally first order of business, now that I've got money for tix!"

None of it felt real. He was finally out, but two hundred years had passed. Everyone he'd ever known and loved was long-dead.

He turned, looking to his family plot, but his eyes instantly caught a horrible burning sensation. A headstone in the shape of a cross.

Petrichor averted his gaze. Of course: he'd almost forgotten. He was no longer one of The Lord's creatures.

Robin finished, slung their pack over their shoulder, and motioned him to follow. "You can crash at my apartment while you figure your shit out. I'll grab you some more blood from the butcher's once the T starts running. That's like the subway. Uh, I mean- never mind, not important. Hope pig's blood's enough for you, 'cause I can't do that every day."

At the very least, he had Robin.

"That sounds lovely."

this was originally gonna be a one-shot but i think i might write more? oh god, am i really starting another vampire series? THIS ONE WILL BE SHORTER. A MINISERIES.

if you liked this but want something a more hurt/no-comfort flavored i recommend Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night!!

tune in on tuesday for some kane & jim!

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

one-shots taglist (this is only gonna have 3-4 chapters max so im lumping it in with the one-shots):

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@whumpycries

@reborrowing

event: @whumpmasinjuly @promptsforyourwhumpfic

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whumpy-wyrms · 7 months

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The Last Lab Rat #9: Alone - part 1

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content: lab whump, captivity, nightmare (italicized), parent death mention, isolation, fear of abandonment and death, sensory deprivation, starvation, emotional whump, claustrophobia, escape attempt, needle mention, winged whumpee

sorry this took so long i’ve been busy irl but hopefully i’ll be back posting weekly chapters soon. also today is Dew’s birthday!! i’m gonna draw something but i might post that a bit late but happy birthday Dew!! silly guy

—

Dew woke up sprawled out among his pile of blankets on his bed. He yawned and sat up, stretching out his wings with a sigh of contentment. He sleepily rubbed his eyes and flopped back on the bed. That was the best sleep he’s had since…

Wait.

Dew’s eyes shot open, remembering last night and the days before. But when he expected to see the scientist standing over him with needles and knives, he saw nothing. Literally nothing. Dew sat up in bed, still groggy from his rest, and looked around. His eyes were open, and they were working— looking out the window, he could see the faint red glow of a few digital clocks and other machines— but the light was off. All of the lights were off, and the scientist was nowhere to be seen.

This had never happened before. Anton had always arrived super early in the mornings to check on his favorite little lab rat. Even if he wasn’t in his room waiting for Dew to wake up, he was still working in the lab on other things Dew couldn’t comprehend. The lights were always on, usually dimmed in the mornings before the experiments began, but the only time the lights were all completely off was at night. But it wasn’t night.

Dew looked out at the glowing digital clock: 8:12AM. Anton always woke Dew up at 7. He was late.

Whatever was going on this morning, Dew was too tired to do anything about it. He flopped down into bed and snuggled under the covers. He’d take advantage of this strange start to a day. A bit of extra comfort now would make up for hours of painful experimentation that would surely happen later. Dew closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

. . .

Dew woke up. He was sleeping in a bed, but the blankets were fluffier, and green and brown… not white like the ones on his bed in the lab. He sat up, bumping his head against the… ceiling? Where was he?

Dew opened his eyes. His gaze fell to his old minecraft themed bedspread he had as a kid. On the walls were posters for his and his roommates favorite shows and bands and video games. The light was off, but the sun was shining through the windows, and he basked in the warmth on his skin. He was home.

But how? Dew spread his wings and glided off of the top bunk, feeling the soft carpet under his feet. He took a look around. Everything was almost the same as he left it, but his friends were nowhere to be seen, and neither was their cat Sir Bonkles. But that didn’t matter right now. Dew could cry. He was back.

Dew ran though his old house– no, his home. Anton’s lab wasn’t his home and it never would be. He ran to the living room and saw Layla sitting on the couch with Sir Bonkles purring in her lap. Mars’s enclosure sat on a table against the wall, the ball python curled up inside. Dew caught the smell of something cooking, and looked in the kitchen to see Hayden and Sawyer painstakingly trying to make breakfast for everyone. Wait, Sawyer was here?

“Hey,” Dew said.

“Oh, hey Dewdrop!” Layla exclaimed, pausing her show.

“Where’ve you been?” Hayden asked. “We missed you.”

“I… I um, I was…” Dew’s mind flashed with memories he’d rather forget. Memories of fear and pain, of being kept in a room, trapped in a lab, memories of failed escape attempts and needles. So, so many needles. Memories of his captor taunting him about how nobody was coming to rescue him. Dew tried blinking away the tears forming in the corner of his eyes, but they fell anyway. “Weren’t you looking for me?”

“Of course we were!” Sawyer said. “I didn’t stop looking. I’m happy you’re back, Dewey.”

“W-wait, how’d I get h–”

“Oh!” Layla exclaimed, looking out the window. “Scooby Dew, your parents are here!”

Dew’s heart skipped a beat. All his strange excitement for being back immediately vanished and was replaced with a sense of dread oozing through his body. This wasn’t right. “W-what…?”

The door opened, and Dew’s mom and dad walked in, holding bundles of balloons. They looked just like Dew remembered them… not from the funeral, but back when they were alive. They looked happy. They were smiling. They were alive.

Oh. It was a dream.

This was all just a dream.

“Everyone’s so happy you’re back, Dew!” Hayden said, bringing Dew a plate of chocolate chip pancakes. “We have to celebrate, you’ve been gone such a long time.”

Of course it was a dream.

“Yeah, we have a whole season of our show to catch up on!” Layla exclaimed, patting the spot next to her on the couch. Dew sat down. “And I’ve gotta show the progress I’ve made on the game we’ve been working on. I can only code so much, you’re the writer Dew, you gotta help us!”

Of course he wasn’t actually out.

“Oh! Dew,” Hayden said. “That new video game you’ve been waiting for was released! You missed it, we were gonna play it together, remember?”

“Hey Dew,” Sawyer said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I wanted to say I forgive you for what you said to me a few months ago. I know we haven’t talked, but I would still like to be your friend.”

No. He wouldn’t say that!

“Stop!” Dew exclaimed, jumping from the couch and flaring his wings out. Everybody stopped and stared. It was eerily silent.

“Th-this isn’t real! This is just a dream! It’s just a fucking dream!”

He heard his parents talking. He couldn’t understand what they were saying to him, their words were jumbled and their voices didn’t sound quite right. Dew tried to look away, tried to squeeze his eyes shut but he couldn’t help but glance up at them. From a distance they looked familiar. A distant memory, nostalgic, a blurry photograph taken from far away. But up close they were blank, their faces jumbled and unrecognizable. Dew rarely made eye contact with people, he always had trouble remembering faces and after his parents died, he avoided looking at photos of them because it was too painful. A constant reminder of what he would never see again. That was five years ago. They only haunted his dreams now.

“N-no… you’re not real. J-Just leave me alone!”

Everybody disappeared. The room was empty, and Dew was alone again.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” Dew cried. He opened the front door and looked at the sky. It was weird. Not a normal sky. But he didn’t care.

Dew took off. He flew through the air at a speed that felt faster than light itself. He felt the wind blowing through his feathers and a flock of birds surrounding them as if he was one of their own. The trees were tall, never ending as they stretched up into the sky with him. But he eventually flew higher than those too.

But it wasn’t real. Dew wasn’t flying through the sky and clouds and air like he’d always wanted, he was having a dream in Anton’s lab. And he knew this.

But he didn’t care. He flew and flew and planned to fly forever, higher and higher and higher. It felt so real, he hoped he would never wake up. That way, everyone would get what they wanted. Dew could fly forever, and Anton could use his body as a test subject, unable to resist.

But after a while, the more he spiralled, the more the sky turned colors and his flesh warped around him, the more the birds started talking to him in human words, and his nonexistent watch displayed numbers that didn’t exist, the more this fucked up reality faded away.

The last thing he saw before he woke up, was a little mouse in his hands, telling him the words, “I’m sorry.”

. . .

Dew gasped awake. “Dammit!” He screamed into his hands as tears flowed down his cheeks. It was just a dream. It was just a fucking dream.

Dew grabbed the blanket and yanked it over his head, curling into a ball and squeezing his eyes shut. Anton had to be in his room now, watching him, mocking him. He had another bad dream that was almost making him burst into tears, how pathetic was that? But it was too hot under the blanket, too suffocating. Dew threw it off of him, almost falling off of the bed by the force of his throw. If Anton was there, he would’ve laughed… Wait, he still wasn’t there?

Dew wasn’t expecting the lights to still be off in his room. He wasn’t expecting all of the lights to be still off. It was pitch dark in the lab. Dew blinked a couple times, maybe his eyes hadn’t adjusted to the dark yet? No… nothing had changed. Dew looked out the window to the glow of the clocks. 11:24AM.

Okay. This was fine. Anton was over three hours late. He had probably just slept in from being woken up last night. This was fine. Dew couldn’t see anything, not even his hands frantically waving in front of his face. This was fine.

Maybe the power went out? No, that wouldn’t explain how the clocks were still working, or why Anton was nowhere to be found.

Dew looked up towards the door, at where the camera would be. If Anton wasn’t in the lab, he would surely be watching him through that, right? That was how he found out about Dew’s nightmare last night, after all.

Oh shit– Dew cringed. How could he have been so stupid? Asking Anton to stay with him last night? What was he thinking?

Dew hated Anton. He hated him! He’d always hated him and sometimes the thoughts of killing him and escaping were the only thoughts that got him through this hell. But thinking about what had happened last night, it wouldn’t make any sense for Anton to just abandon him like this. The scientist wasn’t the type of person to just forget, or sleep in, or decide to take a random day off. He had a rigid schedule that he stuck to, and he seemed to never want to spend too much time away from his test subject if he didn’t need to.

Dew was his test subject though. Thinking about it like that made him want to cry, but at the moment, stuck in Anton’s lab, it was true. He was a test subject, and the scientist controlled every part of his life. Dew needed Anton if he was going to survive here. Anton knew he needed him. Dew didn’t want to die, but he surely would if Anton didn’t take care of him. As much as Dew didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to need Anton, he did.

“H-Hey!” Dew yelled, hoping the camera also had a microphone. “Why are all the lights off? I’m- I’m hungry!” Dew felt silly screaming into the air at nothing, but what else could he do?

“...I know you’re watching me!” Dew lied. “Stop ignoring me!” Nothing happened. “If- if this is some trick or- or experiment, like if you wanna see how I react to isolation or something, well, your cover's blown! I know what you’re planning now so you might as well come feed me!”

Silence.

Dark, suffocating, eerie silence.

“...Anton!” Dew shouted, not even at the camera anymore. He ran to the wall that looked over the lab and banged on the glass. “Anton! Anton! Anton?…” His screams died down after a little while, when he was sure he wouldn’t get a response.

“Just fucking great,” Dew sighed to himself. He stood in his room, suddenly feeling claustrophobic in this dark void. It was a small room, and there was almost nothing to do but wait until whenever Anton showed up. Dew didn’t understand what was happening, why, of all days, Anton just… Wasn’t here. But it was fine, he supposed, it meant he’d be free from pain for a little while.

Even if Dew did have something to do, it was impossible to see anything. He didn’t want to just go back to sleep though, after two terrible dreams in a row. And besides, he’d gotten a lot of sleep by now. He was wide awake.

Dew paced his room, trying to calm down. He was hungry, but he could go a few more hours without food, it was fine. Dew held his arms out in front of him, feeling the walls for the bathroom door. Dew was thankful Anton had removed that chain from his ankle a few weeks prior, at least now he wouldn’t have to worry about tripping over it in the dark.

Brushing his teeth was easy in the dark, and so was showering. It was a routine, a pattern. Not being able to see didn’t change anything. And Dew liked the dark, he’d always loved being in small, dark spaces, it had always been a comfort to him.

It was only until recently that he first felt the creeping fear of the dark, a cold chill go crawl up his spine whenever it was too dark to see what was lurking behind him. It didn’t make sense; Anton was the only other person here. But still, Dew hated the constant feeling that he was being watched, even in the darkness.

It was only until recently that he had grown to hate confined spaces. His growing wings needed to stretch out, and Dew was forced to spend his time out in the open. Yet another thing his captor took from him.

But that was fine. That didn’t even matter. There were so many more things that were more important than not being able to have slumber parties with his friends in the tiny room under the stairs anymore, or listening to music in his dark closet.

The shower helped Dew’s racing heart, but did nothing to get him out of this… situation. It was strange, wanting the things that hurt him; the too bright lights to turn on and Anton to walk through the door. It meant pain, most likely, and fear… but it also meant he wasn’t alone.

Dew almost hated being alone more than being with Anton.

And he hated that.

Dew didn’t have any dishes, so he cupped his hands under the cool sink water and sipped it from there. At least he knew he wouldn’t die from dehydration. But he still had no food.

He checked the clock. 13:23. He learned how to read a 24 hour clock at this point, it was a little over 1pm. Anton was over six hours late.

This wasn’t fine anymore. Of course it wasn’t. Where could Anton possibly be? Dew thought of all the things that could've happened to his captor to keep him from coming down here, and it just didn’t make sense. Anton hadn’t left Dew’s side for almost two months straight, why had he suddenly abandoned him?

Maybe he got caught? Maybe Dew’s friends or the authorities finally found him and locked him up… but then why weren’t they coming to Dew’s rescue? Did Anton destroy the keys to the lab? Was Dew now stuck here forever, his friends on the other side of the door, waiting for some miracle to open it?

Dew shook those thoughts away. Of course they weren’t. Of course, they must still be looking for him, but he’d know if they found him by now. They wouldn’t need a key to open a door when they could just kick it down.

So what was it then? Where the fuck was Anton? Was he in trouble? Did something happen? Dew supposed the worst possible thing would be if something bad did happen to Anton, and he wasn’t around to help Dew. At all. That thought, that feeling of sheer abandonment and knowing that if Anton disappeared, nobody would ever find your body, deep underground in the secret lab.

Dew laid down on his stomach, resting his head in his arms while his wings fidgeted nervously above him. He felt his stomach growl with hunger and he wished he had his music to listen to… If not that, then humming his favorite songs until Anton showed up would have to do.

Because he would show up, and Dew would have the slight comfort of knowing he wouldn’t die here, at least not abandoned and all alone.

. . .

Dew couldn’t take it anymore. How long had it been? It was 6PM already. Eleven hours after Anton was supposed to wake him up. He’d hummed the lyrics to probably 100 songs by now, all of them jumbling together as the minutes slowly ticked by. He felt like he was going insane, there was absolutely nothing to do. There was nothing to see, to hear, taste, smell… it was torture.

Dew wished he’d asked for a notebook, or a book to read, or anything to make his time here less boring. But he’d usually spend time with Anton in the lab during the day, and resting during the night, too tired from the experiments to do anything else. So he never bothered to ask for things to keep him entertained. How he wished he did now… even if it was too dark to see it.

The only sound he could hear besides his rapidly beating heart and racing thoughts was the air conditioning start up every hour. The white noise drowned out some of his spiral, but it was no use.

Eventually Dew decided to take another shower, to feel the warm water turn freezing cold and smile as Anton’s water bill went up. But that got boring quickly too. He kept the water on though, the silence he onced loved turning suffocating.

Dew stared at the clock. 19:45. It’d been over 12 hours. He’d stopped trying to sleep a while ago. Dew was curled up in a ball on the floor in the corner of his room. He stared at the camera with hatred in his eyes.

“I bet you think this is funny, huh,” Dew spat. “You found out last night I hate being alone, so you thought you’d leave me all alone in the dark today, huh? With no food? Or stimulation, o-or company? You just wanna torture me now, is that it?” Dew wrung his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut at an attempt to hold back tears.

“You think– that maybe being ‘nice’ isn’t working, it’s not making me want to stay here willingly… So you decided to abandon me, make me see how much I need you and d-depend on you. S-so that when you come back and feed me, I-I’ll want to stay because I can’t stand being alone– all fucking alone in this cage! You wanna see me break, is that it?! You want me to be compliant and obedient while you fucking experiment on me like some animal?!

“I’m not an animal… I’m a person, Anton! I’m a person and I know you know that! I know you have this strange fucking– perception of me and sometimes you treat me nice but the other times you treat me like I don’t even have a fucking mind! You don’t make any sense! I don’t understand you!

“But if this– if all this is some trick to get me to willingly take part as a test subject like you want– It’s not working! I won’t fall for any of your fucking tricks again! Go fuck youself! Go fuck yourself and go die! I’ll kill you, you hear me!? When I get out of here I will fucking rip you apart!”

Dew hadn’t realized he stood up, but he found himself standing in front of the door, staring at the camera as tears flowed down his cheeks– he hadn’t noticed he started crying either. Dew grabbed the camera and yanked it from the wall, throwing it to the floor and laughing as it smashed into pieces.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Dew collapsed to the ground and cried in a ball. Anton wouldn’t be happy about him breaking that. But the scientist couldn’t even see him now. He wasn’t watching him anymore.

He wasn’t watching him anymore.

Dew’s breath hitched at his sudden realization. He was alone. He wasn't being watched. If Anton had been watching through the surveillance camera, he’d surely come down to see what happened to it. But if he wasn’t… He wouldn’t know it was even broken.

Dew’s heart sped up. He uncurled himself from the floor and stood on trembling legs. He was alone. He wasn’t being watched. Nobody was here to stop him. He could escape.

Dew frantically started to try and open the door, kicking it and banging on it. He moved his hands and felt along the walls, as if he’d push a brick in and unlock a secret entranceway. He knew it didn’t make sense, nothing did right now. He was starving, he felt like a feral animal, proving the scientist right as he picked up the chair and threw it at the door. When that did nothing, he then threw it at the glass wall, but that too, was too strong. Dew tried picking up his entire bed frame, but he wasn’t strong enough. He hadn’t eaten all day. He was starving and weak and exhausted.

The air conditioner started up again, signifying the endless passing of time that never seemed to stop. The sound of cool air flowing through his room just reminded him how trapped he was—

Wait a fucking minute.

Dew looked up to the corner of his ceiling, above his bed and to the left. Of course he saw nothing, the room was still dark. But he knew what was there. He knew what’d always been there since day one but the thought never even occurred to him to try and open it. He was too short, too weak to pry open the metal hinges. Especially not with Anton watching through the camera or being in the lab all the time. But now… he was all alone. He could reach the vents now. He could. He could go through them and the scientist would never know because he wasn’t here.

Dew’s wings fluttered in anticipation. Excitement. Suspense. Hope. This wasn’t like the other times he’d tried to escape. He didn’t randomly decide one morning that today would be the day, he didn’t impulsively decide to escape and run and be chased and get hurt. This was controlled. This time, he was alone. He was by himself and Anton was nowhere to stop him or mind control him or hurt him. Dew could escape and there was nothing Anton could do about it because he was gone.

And at this point, Dew didn’t care where Anton went. He was done waiting around for his captor to come back. He had a plan now. This was the chance he’d been waiting for.

Dew waited another half hour, making sure he truly was alone. Maybe a part of himself tried to talk him out of it, told him he’d just be hurt more, worse than before for escaping. But he ignored that part of himself, the part that tried to keep him safe, the part that saw himself as just a test subject.

He couldn’t wait any longer and let that part of himself win. He took a glance at the clock– 20:16, 8PM– before he hopped up on his bed with nervous, shaking legs. He was too short to reach the vents with his arms, so he grabbed the chair in the corner and stacked it on his nightstand and climbed on top of that. If he fell from there, it would hurt, but not as bad as what Anton would do if he caught him escaping.

Dew took one last look towards the direction of the window, down where the door to the lab would be. If it opened now, he could just hop down and pretend everything was normal. He could wait until Anton arrived like the good test subject he was, but Dew knew that wasn’t gonna happen. Fuck that shit. This was it, no going back now.

Dew’s wings fluttered as he jumped in the air and grabbed the bars of the vents with his hands. His legs kicked out and knocked over the chair, having nothing to step on, but that was fine. His wings kicked into action and despite his room being so small, and despite not being able to see where the walls began, he was flying. He positioned himself upside down, hands gripping the vent, feet placed on the ceiling, on either side of it, and pulled with all his strength.

The vent suddenly swung open, causing Dew to fall backwards, but he expected that to happen and he was ready. His wings flapped rapidly as he lunged himself upward, through the hole in the ceiling, and into the unknown.

He collapsed in the small, cold, metal space. He closed the latch back up, covering his tracks, and began to crawl through the tight tunnels. It wasn’t as a tight space as Dew was expecting, which he was thankful for. There was enough room to sit up and turn around if he needed to. It was still dark, and he had to hold his arms in front of him to not bump into a wall, or fall down a sudden turn.

Despite the high stakes situation, Dew couldn’t help but smile. Crawling through the vents like he was in a heist movie was something Dew had always wanted to do. He just hoped it would end with him making it to the surface.

He was crawling for a few moments until he found his first turn, his sense of direction was abysmal so he had no idea what way to go, so he just chose a direction and kept crawling.

A sudden, terrifying thought occurred to him. The lab was located underground, deep, deep underground. If Dew never found an exit, if Anton never got him out of the air ducts, Dew would just die here.

He gulped that thought away. He couldn’t think like that, he wasn’t going to die.

After more twists and turns, he found an opening. He couldn’t see what was out the other side, as the lights were still off, but he didn’t want to be in the vents anymore. So, with the bit of strength he had left, he kicked it open and jumped down, his wings softening the landing.

Dew was out. Dew was out of his room and even though he was hungry, that didn’t matter anymore— nothing mattered now except escaping the lab.

Dew looked around frantically, recognising the familiar feeling of the tiles on the floor, and noticing the glow of the clocks closer to him. He was in the lab. Alone.

It was around 9PM. Dew didn’t think anymore, not about his hunger, not about Anton, not about what would happen to him later, only about finding a way out. He ran to where the clock was, that was a good start. He tripped over some boxes on the floor but regained his footing quickly, fueled solely on adrenaline.

He made it to Anton’s desk, and felt around for anything. He opened drawers until he found a flashlight. It clicked on and Dew let out a sigh of relief. Finally, he could see.

First thing first was finding out what fucking day it was. Dew tried to keep count, but only had a rough estimation at this point. He shined his flashlight over Anton’s desk, picking up a small bag and stuffing it with papers, files, tape recorders, any evidence that would be helpful once he gets out of here. He found a small blank notepad, and a pen, and stuff that into his pants pocket as well. And then his eyes landed on a calendar.

Dew looked at the calendar. All the days that had passed were marked with an ‘X’, except today: October 3rd. It was October already? Dew realized in horror.

Dew flipped through the calendar a few pages until he got to August. Some of the days had writing over them, important events Anton was waiting for, Dew supposed. One of the days was circled with a blue marker. “New test subject day!” it read. Dew felt sick. Anton had planned it, written the day he was gonna kidnap him down on his calendar like it was any other special event.

Dew had been taken around the beginning of August, and it was already October. Dew felt numb. How had he let eight weeks pass like it was nothing? How could– How hasn’t anybody found him yet? Surely people have been looking, right?

Dew crumpled up the calendar in his hands, tears freely falling down onto it. He’d been here so long, he only just realized his birthday was already two weeks away.

Dew missed out on seven consecutive gamenights with his roommates. He missed over 40 days of work. He missed feeding Hayden’s snake every Wednesday. He missed sitting on the couch with Layla to watch a new episode of her favorite show every Friday, with Sir Bonkles purring on his lap. He missed out on long nights awake playing video games with Sawyer. He missed playing with Sawyer’s dog. He missed Sawyer.

“C-calm down,” Dew told himself. Breaking down wouldn’t help his situation now, he had to focus.

He’d see Sawyer, and Hayden and Layla and all their pets later. He’d reunite with his best friends and confess his most likely unrequited love to them later. Now was not the time to think about all this.

Dew stood up on shaking legs, forgetting about the half-assed bag of evidence he made, and pointed his flashlight towards the direction of the door. He was hungry, he hadn’t eaten in a full 24 hours, but Anton was gone. He was so close, he could just leave if he got the door open.

He shined the flashlight to a nearby shelf, jump scaring himself at the sight of needles, but he shook that fear away. He didn’t have time for fear. Dew took a deep breath and looked over the various strange tools and weapons, any of these outta get that door open.

Just as Dew was heading towards the door with a crowbar in hand, the lights suddenly turned on, briefly blinding him. Dew stopped in his tracks, dread pooling in his stomach, acutely aware of the situation he was in. He hadn’t felt this sense of pure terror before, almost animalistic, this deep sense of dread that made a chill crawl up his spine and his entire body tremble in terror.

He was caught.

Anton was back.

—

taglist: @whumpinthepot @shywhumpauthor @whump-me-all-night-long @whump321 @fuckcapitalismasshole @sorry-i-spaced @theelvishcowgirl @catnykit @tettlod @delicateprincepaper @rejectedbytheempty @mijajaj @anothertawogsideblog @creppersfunpalooza @toyybox

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

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wronggalaxy · 10 months

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"You have an ED because you're autistic and have sensory issues!"

No, I have an ED because I was forced to eat certain foods at certain times in certain portions for 8 years before having unlimited access to food, but the food being rusty cans of vegetables and the occasional moldy fruit all the while being called ugly for both being a skinny baby and fat child. Oh, and let's not forget the addiction I got at 8 years old to my medically prescribed vitamins because even though I was constantly binge eating the food was so unnutritious I was starving to death.

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livingforthewhump · 1 year

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Irish Mafia Part Six

Masterlist

Their stomach was cramping again.

Kelsey struggled to remain upright from the sheer sensation of it, clenching and yawning like an open void. A vacuum trying to consume them whole. Their arms trembled as they scaled up the outer wall of the warehouse. It seemed impossible, the amount of distance that loomed between them and their assigned position. With every grasping inch they climbed, they had to force air in and out of their lungs. Often they had to stop for a moment until their eyes focused again.

The chirping of crickets erupted in the night around them.

By the time they hauled themself through the open window onto the rickety inner balcony, their limbs were like dead weights on them. Not good. Kelsey braced themself against the wall for a minute, leaning their head back and breathing deeply through their mouth so they wouldn’t make much noise. Their arms hung limp at their sides and their legs burned, threatening to topple them over. Best keep moving, then, before they gave out altogether.

The rusted metal of the railing was barely sturdier than them, shuddering as they climbed over it and hopped over onto the metal rafters that webbed across the ceiling. Their empty stomach swooped as they clung onto the flaking metal. Their hands were sweaty and red from gripping uneven surfaces with all their strength. Kelsey took another precious moment, leaning their forehead against the rough metal. It felt like a shock of ice against their face, and it was welcome. Their other hand drifted to their back, double checking the placement of their weapon. It was tucked securely into their waistband still, digging just slightly into their back when they stood upright.

They moved on, weaving across the rafters like they didn’t feel ready to collapse were they not in danger of dying if they did so. It still felt like hours of holding their breath before they got to the proper vantage point. It was a blessed relief to sit down, hooking their legs around the rafters to secure their position and hold themself as still as possible. They prayed to all the saints they’d be able to stand up again once the job was done, but it didn’t matter as much as getting here had. Now they would make the shot. They could start to prove themself to Devon, to the rest of the gang. They weren’t like their brother. They wouldn’t fail.

Their injuries were aching again with the recent movement and exertion. They were closed up enough that Kelsey was fairly certain they hadn’t reopened them, though. Even the bruises wrapping around their torso and over their jaw had faded to a sickly green, somewhat matching the pallor the rest of their skin had taken since Devon enacted the whole “no food” discipline.

A few figures emerged onto the floor far below. Kelsey’s head swam a little from the movement reminding them how high up they were, how precarious their position was. They caught their muscles loosening and shifted themself to tighten them again. They could not fall.

The figures were speaking now, voices carrying and echoing and warping in the strange, empty space. Kelsey wasn’t sure if the echoes were actually making them incomprehensible or if it was their own ears and exhausted brain manipulating the sound into something meaningless. It didn’t really matter, either way. All they needed was sight and a steady hand. If they had to guess, it seemed both groups were upset at the other bringing reinforcements. The deal had been to meet alone, although it seemed like a ridiculous pretense to Kelsey since everyone always knew that wouldn’t be happening.

They tuned out from the sounds for a moment, reaching behind them to grab their small sniper rifle. It would be a tricky shot from this angle, so they took the time to aim carefully. The signal wouldn’t catch them off guard now. They would be ready. They had to be ready.

The tones turned threatening, snapping them to attention. Kelsey’s breath caught in their throat. They tried to swallow past it. Why was their heart hammering against their collarbone? No one was addressing them. No one was mad at them.

They didn’t even know if that was true.

They flexed their finger, preparing to be given the cue. They just wanted this to be over with. Maybe if they succeeded, the Boss would let them sleep for more than a few hours. They dared not hope he would let them eat before the proper time for the punishment had been drawn out.

Then, a signal.

Not their signal.

A signal from the enemy. Followed by a fucking explosion.

It was something outside, but based on Callaghan’s reaction down there, it was something important. He was fuming. Debris and dust catapulted in through the open windows, small pebbles striking Kelsey’s hanging legs. The building shuddered, lurching and settling while Kelsey hung on for dear life. The deep rumbling of collapsing concrete seemed to mimic the caving in of their stomach. The sound filtered through them, shaking them to their core until it seemed like the sound, the sensation of shaking and never being able to hold on tight enough, was all that existed.

Their breaths came in feeble gasps, tears stinging their eyes and tracking down their chin. Time seemed to black out for a minute. There was too much. Too much noise, yelling and breaking and heavy things crumbling. Too much sensation, shaking metal bars digging blunt edges into their legs and arms, skin stinging from the loose debris, muscles sore and shaking, hunger consuming them, healing woUunds protesting their recent activity level. Their mouth tasted like blood and silt. Their vision was blurred and shaking. They tightened their hand around the handle of the guUn, trying to hold it steady, but they couldn’t breathe.

Their chest felt like it was tightening and tightening, like it was surrounded by water pressure, wrapped in rope and pulled tighter than it was supposed to go. They wheezed desperately. Kelsey felt horrifically helpless. If they didn’t get some actual air in them, their muscles would contract against their will and give out. They clenched their jaw and tried to block it all out, tried to count.

1, 2, 3….

Breathe out.

4, 5, 6….

Breathe in.

7, 8, 9, 10…

Hold.

1, 2, 3…

When their vision cleared enough to once again make out the figures down on the warehouse floor, Kelsey’s stomach dropped. Half of them were gone. Callaghan was staring up at them, face so red from rage that they could see it from here.

They had missed their cue.

The mission had failed.

—

Irish Mafia series taglist: @hurting-fictional-people @villainsvictim @lazy-witch-photographer @mylifeisonthebookshelf @someoneonearth2007 @multifandoms-multishipper @when-the-feet-hurt

#it’s been a while but i am back!! and updating the one series i don’t have people requesting for ajfjksjf #irish mafia series #irish mafia: kelsey #exhaustion whump #panic attack #sensory overload #starvation #mafia whump

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modern-day-kleavor · 11 months

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Experiment log #1: Obstagoon

TW for: pokemon cruelty, amputation, starvation, abduction, sensory deprivation

Subject Overview:

Subject Obstagoon (who will be referred to as Subject 1 from now on) is a dark/normal type, standard, wild-born specimen. Subject appears to be slightly smaller than the average size for its species at a round 5'00", as opposed to the usual 5'03". Subject is a female and weighs in at 95.5 lbs, and bears the ability Reckless.

Experiment Performed:

Because an Obstagoon is typically a very efficient hunter in the wild using its tongue to scent its prey, I am curious to see how it would perform without one. Its tongue will be removed and it will be placed back into the wild under observation, to see how it does.

Prediction:

It is most likely that it will have difficulty locating its prey/swallowing what food it does find, and will starve to death.

Log:

Subject is released into the wild and immediately flees to the treeline, as expected. It does not seem to perceive our cameras in the forest, thankfully.

Subject moves in zig-zag patterns, similar to its pre-evolution galarian linoone, heading west. Subject appears to be having difficulty navigating its surroundings, running into various roots and plants. Perhaps it also uses its tongue as a way to identify its surroundings?

Subject has stumbled across a Skwovet by chance. It does not appear to realize the Skwovet is there. The Skwovet has, strangely, began approaching the Subject, appearing hesitant.

The Skwovet has gotten the attention of the Subject and provided it with an oran berry. The Subject doesn't appear to be able to eat it. The Skwovet resolves to slice the berry in half and try again, this time with success in getting the Subject to feed.

The Subject and the Skwovet appear to be communicating. The Subject appears to be in distress. The Skwovet climbs on top of the Subject, surprising it, and starts chittering to it.

The Subject travels through the forest without further issue with the Skwovet atop its head, seemingly guiding the Subject towards berries and warning it about obstacles. Eventually it makes it back to its old den from before I took it, and invites the Skwovet inside, seemingly indefinitely.

Result:

Well this was unexpected. It found a prey animal, something it would usually eat upon locating, and worked together with it to become a more efficient unit. Should they continue working together, neither will have any problem surviving in the wild. A relationship like this is odd and unprecedented.

My hypothesis is that the Skwovet took pity on the Subject, or decided to use its loss of direction to its advantage. I wonder if the Subject even knows that it's a Skwovet.

Overall, I think it's really interesting how this worked out! I'll keep an eye on these two and perhaps bring them in for further testing in the future.

#tw pokemon abuse #tw death mention #tw dismemberment #tw amputation #tw starvation #tw starving #tw abduction #tw kidnap mention #tw sensory deprivation #tw pokemon cruelty #tw animal cruelty #tw animal abuse #tw experimentation #tw experiments #obstagoon #skwovet #predator/prey friendship

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nonbinarymissdude · 8 months

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okay I've only been working the digital makeline at chipotle but I've been really enjoying the job so far. my night manager is cool asf i like him a lot.

#AND THE FREE EMPLOYEE MEAL IS LITERALLY SAVING ME FROM STARVATION AND MALNUTRITION RN #some of the only good protein a hoe has been getting lol #but i kinda chefed it for breakfast thiz morning #i made a pancake sandwhich with turkey prov and grape jelly #it was good but i also spat out the first bite because im so so autistic #eating is honestly such a struggle for me sometimes lmao cause of my food sensory shit is FIERCE #like i will literally spit my food out if it's a bad texture to me #this is why eating with other people is stressful asf

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myrkulitescourge · 6 months

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the way that one line from the new epilogue in an astarion romance is going to HAUNT me

just. what a profoundly intense thing to confess to someone.

like, just these six months of newfound happiness with you exerts a force on his heart equal and in direct opposition to two centuries of endless torment, the gnawing hunger and exploitation. this flashbulb-bright fraction of his long life holds the same gravity to him as years upon years of darkness and suffering.

in all likelihood, he hasn’t even known his lover for as long as his worst memory lasted, that year sealed away to go mad from starvation and sensory deprivation, yet he still tells them this brief time has been so fundamentally and powerfully important that the weight of even that unimaginable hell is vanishingly small compared to this present he has now and the future ahead of them both.

how am i supposed to act normal about this.

#i need to lay down #just drop this in there right at the beginning why not!#that’s INTENSE. and completely sincere considering his demeanor at the party. god #he’s so… nice. in the romanced epilogue. i expected him to be a little smug and jokey #if tav told him the others weren’t doing so hot without the two of them around #but he takes it so genuinely and with visible disappointment?? literally shocked me #i thought he would say oh of course their lives have taken a turn without our impressive leadership lol!#and then redirect into something a little less flippant #but man. he just gets sad. astarion six months into a loving relationship is like a stray cat that instantly gets cuddly when you adopt it #dude went cotton candy marshmallow saccharine sweet in a HEARTBEAT #bless the others with your presence he says. i’ll always be here he says. we have forever after all he says.#head in my hands. how could they do this to me #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion #bg3 epilogue spoilers #bg3 spoilers #baldur’s gate 3 spoilers #bg3

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canenotabeltofunction · 8 months

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Me: “I can’t be autistic, I don’t have sensory issues.”

Also Me-

- The person who told me to try freezing grapes is my enemy.

- *Physically gagging from trying to eat a freeze dried strawberry*

- “I can’t sleep, my shirt is on.”

- This yogurt had pieces of fruit in it so I will let it spoil in the back of my fridge and die of starvation before I eat it.

- If anyone touches me right now I will become a safety hazard

- *Throwing myself off of furniture*

- Something is crinkling SOMEWHERE in the next room and if I don’t find it and destroy it I will never sleep again.

- This person’s headlights were too bright for 0.5 seconds and now I will have a migraine for the next 4 hours.

- My hands are wet MY HANDS ARE WET MAKE IT STOP

- What do you mean these clothes are dry? They’re clearly still damp, how do you not feel it? They’re still damp!

- These two rocks rubbed against each other and made a noise and I think I may have broken a tooth from clenching my jaw so hard

- If I am forced to wear jeans for more than 0.3 seconds upon entering my home I’m going to start crying

- Frosted Glass = Evil

- Yes I am going to “waste money” buying pre-peeled garlic because peeling garlic makes my hands sticky and I hate it.

- Stopping to wash my hands every 5 minutes while cooking because I can’t stand having things on my hands.

Feel free to add your own

#autism #autism problems #actually autistic #autism memes #autistic adult #autistic community #sensory overload #sensory problems

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chisatowo · 2 years

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Oh god and don't even get me started on how stalien biology is built around rapid adaptation periods in youth and how things meant to be adaptation growths can be triggered by things only semi related or how the location of egg growth can effect the traits of the staliens born there and how it's still not that reliable when it comes to selecting ideal traits for an environment because their so god damn sensitive to everything during their initial growth I have too god damn many thoughts abt stalien biology someone needs to confiscate eternal gales from me-

#rat rambles #oc posting #eternal gales #like ok ok I wont go too into it because I need to sleep soon. but.#generally there are two main forms of cold rapid adaptations that every stalien initially has the potential to activate #that being artificial weight gain and immense size increase #but these things are mostly triggered outside of cold enviormemts by starvation or frequent blood loss during youth #most staliens also have the genetic potential for a much larger portion of their life to grow more fur on the rest of their body #not all though since this can impeed with sensory information if it grows in wrong or if their sensory hairs dont adjust accordingly #this is less commonly triggered by things other than cold weather but is more readily available for a longer time #although its much more likely to fail to trigger in individuals with less weight built up since it takes a lot of energy #less because of the fur but more because of the adjustments that must be made to the sensory hairs #its also often an uncomfortable experience for some #one fun fact abt the society in eternal gales is that because their located in a space that has more plentiful energy deposits eyes are a #much more common trait since light sensitivity is far far more helpful in locating and utalising energy deposits than just sensory hairs #but because most plantlife is also born from the energy of the planet its not that uncommon for a developing stalien to instead or also #develop a mouth since the excess in deposits can also come across as a grove of plantlife to the developing staliens #this actually has overtime lead to eyed and mouthed staliens becoming more common in the area thanks to an overload of deposits #they do have their unique benifits over ones with just one in the sense that they have both light sensitivity and well. mouths #but this more often than not comes at the cost of horns and atenne thanks to a variety of complicated reasons #its not like impossible for one to have one or both but usually thatll come with some other medical issue in their face #mainly because they rly dont have that many nerves in their faces usually #their face hairs are less sensitive and this is also why its more common for fur growth to start on the head and face #and mixed with their head disk it makes making everything connect and fit quite hard #so basically the simple version: having both eyes and a mouth doesnt leave them with enough to have functioning attene #and similar for horns but its also a mix of how much energy is being spent on other things #both eyes and mouth development require a lot of building up or altering other bodily functions to make them work #but on the bright side if you dont grow a mouth thats like what 3 organs that they get to not have to grow #well not have to make work fully theyre still usually there in some capacity #ok ok Ill stop now I need to go to bed djtnfjdjfu

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 6 months

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Objects in Motion

Part 1

Alpha! Billy Russo x Omega! Reader

A/N: My very first A/B/O fic, that I started a while ago, and just decided to post.

It all started after finding out how much that lovely coat Billy wears in s1 costs.

Warnings: Masturbation, omega in heat.

You’re often overwhelmed.

It’s the hitch of your breath when your feelings are too big for your body, or the way your throat hurts with all the words that go unsaid.

There are not enoughs and there are too muchs and hardly any moments when things are… just right.

The coat in your hands is soft- ridiculously so, the label offers you an explanation- 100% cotton. You can't help the way your hands tighten on the material, as if you’d fight off anyone that tried to take it from you. Like for the first time, just right isn’t just a far away idea, it’s here, in your hands, against your chest.

How had you ended up here? Curled under your bed sheets, pillows all around you, clutching this lovely black coat to your body?

Today had been very overwhelming, your phone had pinged, alerting you to your impending heat, reminding you that you needed to pick up supplies.

Your heats were formidable too, always too hot or too hungry or too needy. There was never a part of you that existed within the realms of fine.

At least until now.

When you were clutching this delightful black coat in your hands, bringing it up to your nose so that you could catch a whiff of the bewitching scent.

It's bergamot at first, followed by notes of citrus that makes your eyes flutter shut. Delight spreads out inside you, fanning at the flames of your desire- your heat coming on faster as your nose lingers on the scent. You catch hints of pepper at the very end and it prompts you to take another long inhale.

Based on the size of the coat, your mind formulates an idea of the size of the person that wears it. The very thought causes you to clench your thighs together.

You didn't mean for this to happen, you'd only gone to pick up your silky PJs from the dry cleaners, designed specifically to be worn during your heat for maximum comfort on your skin. The delicate, gossamer material demanded special care, but you were very glad to have been gifted them some years ago.

You'd just picked up your item, when your nose had zeroed in on a scent that had made your body perk up curiously. It was the first time your senses had streamlined onto one thing, where throughout the day you'd had a number of difficult sensory encounters, leading you into wearing a beanie and noise cancelling headphones and the biggest jacket in your closet in any attempt to feel less things. The scent had made your brain ache for more, demanding you follow what your body had accepted- that this specific scent brought you absolute pleasure.

Even through the garment bag it was stored in, it had activated dangerous thoughts in your hindbrain, and before you could even look around for cameras, you'd reached over the counter and swiped the garment bag when the girl at the front desk wasn't looking. It had been tucked to your chest and smuggled out of the dry cleaners without even a moment of guilt.

Realistically, you wouldn't be in that much trouble anyway, omega behaviour was usually forgiven, even if it didn't make sense. No one would lock you up for swiping a men's coat, especially not so close to your heat.

You have a few hours left, and you use it to make sure your food supplies are easily accessible. Your heats tended to run on for five days- higher than average- which means that you were in a lot more danger of starvation and dehydration.

You wonder if he would take good care of you. Your mind spinning back to the owner of the coat, having already made up some basic idea of him.

You knew his designation, by scent alone, but you were too afraid to admit it to yourself, worried about the consequences of having stolen a coat from someone like that.

Would they be mad? Probably not, you were sure with a scent like that, they were used to omegas swarming around.

The thought made you unreasonably jealous, for a person you didn’t even know.

Your heat hits you in the early hours of the next morning.

You wake with a whine, sitting up, thighs damp with your arousal. You reach for the pills on your bedside table, taking them quickly and swallowing down some tepid water, before lying back. They would help you go back to sleep until morning alleviating some symptoms of your heat. You turn, finding the coat lying beside you. You take a deep breath into it as you fall asleep.

You can’t focus on anything as you pump the slick pink dildo in and out of you. There are tears streaming down your face, desperate for much more than you could ever give yourself.

You bring the coat up to your nose, crying harder as the scent wraps around you.

“Alpha.” You pant into the soft material, imagining your fantasy version of the owner.

You take a deep breath, envisioning him here with you, presumably large body curved over yours, taking up all the air around you, smooth skin available for you to scratch and claw at, his scent glands on display and eager for your mark.

“Alpha.” You beg again, into the loneliness of your apartment.

The coat becomes a centerpoint in your nest.

On day three when it’s fully finished to a satisfactory level, an arrangement of pillows and sheets all around your bed, you tuck the coat in beside you, delighted at the way the material feels on your flushed skin.

The scent is strongest at the collar, where it's probably rubbed on his neck often, brushed against his gland when he turns to examine something.

You groan, mouth watering for a bite of him, whoever he was.

There’s a lot of buttons and buckles on it, and your hindbrain is somewhat obsessed with what you think he looks like wearing it, probaby commands any room he walks into.

The label at the back says Burberry, and though you're not very familiar with the brand, the clean stitching and soft material tells you that it’s definitely got to cost more than what you pay for your own coats.

You sigh, stripping out of your PJ’s and opting to slide into the coat itself.

A groan slips from your mouth, the material feels coarse on your oversensitive skin, but you welcome it as you feel his scent engulf you.

A fresh wave of arousal coats your thighs, and you can’t help inching your hand down between damp thighs until you find your swollen clit.

On your knees now, face down into your bed, you bite down on the collar of the midnight black coat.

Your eyes roll back into your head, muffled grunts as you pump your overstimulated cunt to the brim.

You rub your face into the collar, arching your neck so that your scent gland rubs against the coat, a low whine at the severe taboo thought of rubbing your gland against a stranger's.

It's frowned upon, but the very thought of it is what brings you to orgasm just a few moments later.

You struggle for air, hair tickling your cheek as you huff, some of it clings to the saliva at the corner of your mouth, some of it is caught in the tears that smear your cheeks.

You want- like never before.

When your heat is over, the guilt kicks in.

You know better than to wash the coat yourself, only wiping gently at the interior in hopes of wiping off any lingering traces of… you away. You think about getting it dry cleaned yourself but you’d used the last of your money on the alleviator pills to help with your heat symptoms. You wouldn’t get paid until the end of the month.

Finally, you rummage through the pockets, checking to see if anything had been left behind by the owner. You find a crumpled napkin with someone’s number scribbled on, leaning in, you take an experimental sniff and draw away from it in disgust as the scent hits your nose.

You almost put it back, but you figured it was crumpled anyway, probably meant for a bin in the first place- so you put it there. Searching again and you smile when you come across a tub of lip balm, opening it and giving a little sniff of the inside. There’s no scent to it, and you curiously swipe a bit onto your finger and smear it onto your lips.

You begin to get a sense that the person this coat belongs to, has very refined tastes, and after a quick search, your eyes widen in shock when you discover the lip balm costs near fifty dollars.

Which is how it starts- an itch at the back of your head that tries to warn you of the possibility that the coat in your possession costs more than you’d initially thought.

You let out a slow breath, typing in the information stitched onto the label and your eyes bulge out of your head when you finally see the price of the coat sitting in your lap.

Three thousand.

The coat you stole had cost nearly three thousand dollars.

You look down at the item in betrayal, the scent of its true owner just barely clinging to it.

You take a deep breath, pushing your phone aside as you begin rummaging for a box capable of returning such an expensive item.

Thankfully, you know where to return it to, as the name and address had been hooked to the garment bag.

Delivering it is another difficult task on its own, but you manage, having to call in a few favours and explain in lengthy detail to the courier that your package wasn’t dangerous in any way but you’d rather not deliver it yourself.

Luckily, you’re able to convince them of your cause, the urge to help an omega in distress working in your favour.

It’s nine a.m on a Saturday morning when Billy comes home from his run.

He’s fishing for his keys in his pocket when he notices that there’s a box sitting in front of his door.

He pauses for a moment, looks at the item, before stepping forward to examine it.

There’s a card on top- one of those printed ones you can get at a convenience store- light blue sky and a panda holding onto a handful of bamboo stalks.

There’s an “I’m Sorry,” printed on, and then something added in below in pen.

‘From a very apologetic Omega.’ It says.

His eyebrows twitch in amusement, he brings the card up to his nose to catch a whiff- the scent of light, floral perfume fills his nose.

He’s aware his coat had been stolen, he’d seen video footage of the crime itself, watched as a small hooded frame had reached across and nicked his coat before it could be cleaned. The dry cleaners had sent him the footage when they’d explained what had happened.

He’d thought it had been gone for good, deleting the only copy of the footage and moving on. He could afford to replace one coat.

This though, was interesting, it seems like the omega had felt some sort of remorse, and had returned his coat to him.

It was sweet, he found himself smiling as he reached down to pick the box up, cradling it under one arm and flipping the card open as he enters his apartment.

He huffs, feeling a little sorry for an omega that couldn’t afford a dry cleaning bill, then again, the cost of the coat would definitely bring up the price a lot more.

‘Dear Alpha,

I’m so sorry I took your coat. I tried to clean it as best as I could, but I couldn’t afford to have it dry cleaned for you. It’s wrapped tightly to protect you from the scent on it. I'd suggest not opening it, and taking it to be cleaned as soon as you get it. I’m very sorry.

P.S. You have a very nice scent.’

Curiously, he tugs the box open, finding that the garment bag has been folded carefully and wrapped in plastic wrap.

He sniffs the box experimentally, searching for any hint of a scent, or any indication that the package could be dangerous.

All he gets is more of that pleasant perfume that he figured was doused in the box to protect him from the scent.

It only makes him more curious.

Billy grips the plastic wrap, and very carefully tears a little hole into the plastic, breaking the seal.

His body goes rigid.

He feels his pupils dilate, his hindbrain roaring to life as he catches the scent of an omega in heat.

His omega.

He rips the plastic furiously, fumbles with the garment bag and rips the zipper open. His eyes scan the coat, as he takes one long, slow breath.

The first scent he gets are apples, and then light notes of vanilla, but under it all, is the kick of pheromones, that sticks like honey on his tongue.

He takes another deep breath, groaning as his cock swells, pulsing to life, begging to claim the owner of such a delicious scent.

There’s so much of it, filling his space with sweet notes of frustration, yearning and unfulfillment.

His omega, needing him.

A growl tears from his chest, something inside of him collapses like an avalanche, only increasing with time, decimating his thoughts and leaving a feverish burn under his skin.

He tugs the coat open, groaning, the tart smell of cunt clings to the inside of his coat, telling him that his omega wore his coat naked.

Desperate little thing, he thinks, as he dips his hand into his joggers, fingers wrapping firmly around his cock, squeezing in an attempt to force his orgasm away. He groans, the grip around his cock rewarding him with pleasure, and he can’t help pumping himself, trying to ease the desire inside of him.

He leans in, nose pressed to the collar of his coat, where the scent is strongest, where his omega must have rubbed their little scent gland vigorously against his coat,

Sweet, delightful, his cock aches for a cunt he’s never seen, his mouth yearns for skin he’s never touched. All he has, is the honeyed scent of an omega’s heat, and the screaming inside of him that demands he claim what his body knows is his.

His grip on his cock tightens, his vision blurs, head full of thoughts, ideas of a little omega under him, sobbing as they take his cock repeatedly, begging for more with broken cries.

He doesn’t stop until he comes into his hand, only then, does his thinking sharpen.

He puts his coat in bed beside him, he hopes the sheets will absorb the smell, so that he can have his little omega with him while he sleeps. He wakes with an aching cock, and the coat clutched tightly against his chest, struggling to remember fading dreams of little omegas that beg nicely.

He doesn’t get out of bed until he’s come twice into the palm of his hand.

He searches for days.

But when he’d deleted the footage from the dry cleaners, he’d gotten rid of any hope of tracing his omega’s movements, and chances of finding an address.

She doesn’t leave any record of one, always opting to pick up her items herself.

At least he’s gotten that, a basic description, a height, an idea of her complexion and the colour of her eyes.

It was too vague to work with, but it was something he could think about before he went to sleep at night, with his nose buried in his coat, breathing in the scent of her, desperate to find the omega that had stolen his coat and unintentionally taken his heart.

He studies the card too, learns the handwriting, growing more and more desperate for his little omega.

Billy knew he wouldn't stop looking, not until he found the person who'd opened up a nest of possibilities in his head, giving him something he'd never had in a very long time.

Hope.

Part 2

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #my writings #Alpha!Billy Russo #billy russo smut

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interesting-interludes · 1 year

Text

the comforts of creatures (3)

creature comforts:

↳ material/bodily comforts, such as food, warmth, or special accommodations, that contribute to physical ease and well-being

→ pairing: ot7 x fem.reader

→ genre: fantasy!au, soulmate!au, angst with a happy ending, fluff, hurt + comfort + recovery, eventual smut

→ word count: 4.7k

→ summary: after you wake up in a strange place with strange men, you begin to experience kindness for the first time in months, as the boys begin to realize that you aren’t the person that they used to know.

→ trigger/content warnings: effects of isolation, sensory overload, effects of memory loss, low self-worth, jin is a goddamn sweetheart, mentions of torture, mentions of starvation, angst lol, over-complicated plot cause it’s fanfiction lol, the boys trying their best

→ a/n: also lil disclaimer i am obviously not a doctor so kindly disregard any medical impracticalities that may arise thanks loves :)

past part ← series masterlist → next part

part 3: when you forget me

“Who did this to you?”

Staring up into the eyes of the man leaning over you, a shiver runs through your body at the deep, even tone of his voice. For a long moment, you can’t speak, too distracted by the fact that his attention is directed entirely at you.

The dark piercing eyes, the delicate curve of his mouth, the black curly hair hanging over his forehead. It all shocks you still with something you can’t name. Not quite familiarity, but a sense that whoever this man is, it’s a good idea to listen to him.

You sit there choking on your own words as his eyes search your face.

“Are you afraid?” he simply asks.

You nod, tongue dry in your mouth.

His eyebrows furrow slightly. He seems to be staring even deeper into your eyes than before, searching for something.

“Joon,” the man calls, a touch of urgency in his voice.

One of the taller ones, the man with short brown hair, approaches you. And you can’t help but notice his build.

He’s broad with long, thick limbs, no doubt bulked with muscle beneath his many layers. It would be easy for him to overpower you. Hurt you.

Instinctively, you flinch back as he gets closer.

He drops to one knee to meet your eye level, softening his expression when you meet his gaze.

“Hey, hey,” he begins in a calming tone, seemingly sensing your rising anxiety at being confronted. “None of us are going to hurt you. It’s all going to be okay. I promise.”

You don’t believe him. Of course you don’t. But something about his warm eyes, the deep sincerity that lies behind them, makes you release a breath and nod anyway. Or maybe it’s the way that strange feeling in your chest quivers at the sound of his voice.

Offering a slight smile, he then holds up his hands cautiously.

“May I touch your forehead?” he asks.

As if the rhythm of your brain skips a beat, you reel at the question. He's...asking for permission?

You manage a slight nod, watching him closely as he lifts his hands and places one flat against your forehead and the other at the back of your neck.

The others are watching intently, making the air prickle.

Heat blooms under the man’s large hands, spreading down your spine and into your very bones.

Wisps of smoke dance along the edge of your vision. It seems to be coming from him, seeping from his hands, from his mouth, his eyes, which are now clouded over with a milky white film.

A tickling feeling, like the sensation of a string creeping down your throat, seizes your whole body and mind. It’s hot and cool at the same time, singeing your nerve endings yet soothing them as the sensation travels.

Too invasive, it’s too invasive.

It only lasts for a few seconds before you’re jerking out of his grasp. You huff smoke out of your own lungs, desperately trying to expel the strange force that’s permeated your whole body.

Several of the others flinch too. They all seem to be honed in on your every reaction, twitching when you twitch, breath hitching along with yours.

The man withdraws his hands with a placating expression, rising to his feet and backing away to give you some space.

You barely hear it, but he leans over and whispers in Yoongi’s ear.

“We all need to talk. Now.”

You see the smaller man’s jaw clench. His hands ball into fists at his sides, his entire face darkens.

One blink later, and it’s gone, replaced by an expression so heavy, so broken that it nearly brings a sting to your eye.

The only other person Yoongi can bring himself to make eye contact with is Jin.

His hyung understands immediately, letting his eyelids slowly close as all his suspicions are confirmed. He had an inkling, when he found you in that prison cell and you looked at him like he was a stranger. He supposes that now, he essentially is one to you.

It feels like a hit to the gut. He feels the deep ache in the pit of his chest, raw with the knowledge that what’s done can’t be undone. And it hurts like hell.

But he can’t break down now, not in front of the boys, and certainly not in front of you. Your understanding of the situation is extremely fragile right now, and he knows that he needs to lead by example so you can be as comfortable as possible, so you know that you’re safe here with them.

So Jin inhales a clear breath, swallows down his sorrow, and musters up the most composed expression he can manage.

“Alright,” he begins, the whole room looking at him after he breaks the silence, looking for guidance.

“Let’s get you fixed up, hmm?”

You don’t realize that he’s talking to you until he takes a step forward and gestures in your direction.

“Will you follow me?”

You’re realizing that no one is punishing you for making eye contact without permission, so you meet his gaze with a little less hesitation.

The man waits patiently, nothing but gentle concern in his eyes.

Your skin tingles with the feeling of everyone’s gaze on you again, and after your brain slowly processes the question, you rise shakily to your feet and follow him through a nearby doorway.

It’s only after Jin exits the room, after his back is turned, that he lets a few silent tears fall into his sleeve, quick to wipe them away. Because now he needs to do what he does best: heal his clan.

Exhaustion, hunger, and fizzling adrenaline buzz through your veins, your body burned out from running even a short distance. It’s a laborious task to just put one foot in front of the other, but you focus hard to keep up with the man leading you down the hall.

Every step makes your vision blurrier. You can hear your own struggled breathing, feel the burning in your limbs, but the only thing you know how to do is push on and mask how it feels.

Don’t express emotions. Don’t show your pain. It always makes it worse.

Jin pretends not to notice. He has to fight the urge to offer you his arm to lean on, knowing it probably wouldn’t do any good.

You have no idea how long you were asleep or how long you’ve been here, wherever here is. These men don’t seem like a severe threat, at least not now. They haven’t hit you, called you names, spit on you for making noise. But they could be putting on a front, trying to establish a false sense of security.

You’re not letting your guard down anytime soon.

The two of you come to a large, clean room. It’s well-lit, making you squint your eyes against the brightness.

It’s so bright here. And spacious too. Every room seems as wide as a football field.

The man directs you to a bed lined with paper, and you flinch as you sit down, making much more noise than you wanted.

But he doesn’t seem angered by it, he only turns to one of the many cabinets lining the walls.

The familiar squeak and snap of medical gloves. It puts a heavy pit in your stomach. Clenching your teeth, you try to ignore the swell of nausea.

You hear some shuffling, the clink of glass, and then the man is sitting down in a rolling chair next to the bed.

“Do you recognize me?” he asks, slipping a pair of black glasses out of his shirt pocket and putting them on.

A flash of the ashen, vein-mapped face ignites in your memory.

“Yes,” you reply softly, almost flinching at the sound of your own voice in the quiet room.

“Who am I?” He’s looking at you patiently, but there’s a hint of desperation behind it.

“You were in my cell. You’re a—”

Cutting yourself off immediately, you can’t help but recall all the names your captors used to refer to them.

Parasites. Bloodsuckers. Demon spawn.

The man seems to read your mind, but his eyes stay nothing but patient and kind.

“I’m vampiric, yes.”

He busies himself opening a gauze pad and dousing it with disinfectant. When he looks back up at you, it’s with a questioning gaze.

“May I clean your cuts?”

You sit there dumbstruck for a moment. You can’t remember the last time someone cleaned anything for you, let alone asked for permission to do it as if you have some kind of agency. Or spoke to you so...gently.

After a few seconds of silence, you manage a nod.

He offers a slight smile and starts with the shallow cuts and scrapes on your hands. They are overlapped with scars, dirt and dried blood caked under your fingernails.

His touch is warm. It almost makes you jump, the way his skin feels like human skin. You were always told that they were cold creatures, more dead than alive.

Then there’s the alcoholic sting of the disinfectant. That makes you actually jump, but you fight the urge to pull away in case it ends in more pain.

“I’m sorry, it’s going to sting,” he says.

Why is he apologizing? Why is he treating you like this? Like you’re a human and not a creature?

He moves up to the more deep gashes on your arms, applying cream to the worst of them and bandaging them up.

“My name’s Jin. It’s nice to be formally introduced,” the man says, smiling a little painfully.

It hurts him to say it, to admit that he needs to re-introduce himself to you. But at least you’re letting him tend to your wounds. Right now, that’s all he can ask for.

You sit there silently as he moves all the way up to your shoulders, avoiding putting pressure on the deep purple bruises that litter your skin.

“What’s your name?” He knows it, of course he does. And again it hurts to ask, but he knows that this is the best way to go about it, rather than overloading you with the fact that you’ve been here before, that you already know them all.

The question stumps you. You’ve been called many names. Mutt, beast, savage, monster. You don’t remember ever being called anything else.

The man—Jin—seems to sense your inner struggle.

“Can you remember it?” he asks.

With your eyes trained down at the floor, you shake your head.

“Hmm,” he replies, thinking. “Well that just won’t do. What would you like to be called?”

That stumps you even more. Your mind goes as blank as your memory.

Several minutes of silence pass as he tends to the wounds on your neck and face.

The more he looks, the more his blood boils. Your neck is badly bruised, with painful-looking red rub marks all the way around, as if it’s been abused with a number of different things. A tight fist, a ring of rope, a collar.

Your face is covered in scars and yellowing black bruises. Chunks of hair have been ripped from your skull, not to mention that fact that most of your hair has been sloppily cut.

It all makes him want to tear the throats of everyone even associated with that facility. Looking at your face, at the poorly hidden terror that resides in it, Jin tries his hardest to mask his anger so you aren’t frightened by it.

Jin checks for signs of infection while he dabs at the lesions. He notices that you barely flinch, even when it’s clear that you want to. He wonders, feeling sick to his stomach, what happened in that horrifying place.

“You’ve been through a lot of pain,” he says, and you can hear deep sympathy in his voice.

It’s unusual to you, hearing someone sound sorry for you.

You don’t reply, looking down at the floor again.

A few minutes pass, with him continuing to patch up your wounds while you sit there motionless. After Jin finishes the last bandage, he hesitates, looking at you with another question in his eyes.

“Wound you mind removing your shirt?”

It makes you turn cold, arms unconsciously wrapping protectively around yourself.

“No? Okay, we don’t have to do that,” he says almost immediately, shifting his attention to your legs instead.

“Any internal pain or other symptoms?”

You only answer with a dull shake of your head when he looks up at you expectantly.

He raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe you for a second.

“It’s okay to tell me. I’m a doctor.”

You still don’t say anything, despite the sharp pain in your stomach and the incessant pounding in your head. Too many times you’ve encountered doctors that did nothing but use their knowledge of your body against you.

The last thing you want to do is admit weakness.

For a very brief moment, Jin’s face flashes with disappointment, and you feel your gut lurch with guilt. The next second he’s gathering more equipment from the cart next to the bed.

“Would you mind if I did a few more basic checks?” he asks.

This time you indulge him with a slight nod, and you’re rewarded with a smile that plumps up his cheeks and makes that something in your chest jump.

He checks your heartbeat, your temperature, your blood pressure, among other things that you don’t recognize.

You accept it all with quiet compliance, still fighting the urge to flinch away with every touch. Because every time he touches you, your heartbeat stalls against your will, heat blazing across the spot where his skin met yours.

He always treats you softly and with compassion, making your eyes burn with the urge to cry.

He removes his gloves after he’s done, tossing them, along with the used gauze, into a bin.

“I’m going to give you some antibiotics to fight infection, and something for your pain,” he informs you.

Again, all you do is sit there silently, head tilted down towards the ground.

Jin fights off a sad frown as he turns to one of the cabinets and shuffles through the many pill bottles. Finding the ones he’s looking for, he empties a few into his hand, grabbing a stray water bottle from the counter.

When he hands them to you, you take them very hesitantly. Your heart rate picks up considerably when he continues to stand there, clearly intent on watching you take them.

Slowly, you take a swig from the bottle and raise your cupped hand to your lips. You feign tilting the contents of your palm into your mouth, swallowing as little of the water as possible in case it too is laced with something. You’ve gotten quite good at pretending to take pills, so he easily believes you.

When he turns around, you spit the water back into the bottle as quietly as you can and tuck the pills into your makeshift pants pocket.

“Alright,” Jin says as he turns back to face you. “Now let’s get you something to eat.”

The air is heavy, sucked dry from the words out of Yoongi’s mouth. The six of them stand there silently, feeling gutted.

Hoseok is the first to string together a comprehensible sentence.

“I...I can’t believe it.”

None of them can. Almost ten years, gone. The years spent living with them, loving them, getting to know them better than anyone else in the world, all wiped away.

You can’t remember essentially growing up with the maknaes. You can’t remember studying spells with Yoongi, nearly surpassing him in knowledge and skill. You can’t remember all the times Jin nursed you back to health after protecting the others in a fight, or when you would explode laughing at one of Hobi’s jokes while still in recovery, Jin snapping at him to knock it off because you’d broken your ribs again.

And all the years spent earning your trust, earning their trust, building your confidence, carving your place in their souls, all gone from your mind.

“How?” Jungkook asks, voice thick with hopelessness.

“A riamemors spell,” Yoongi replies. His arms are crossed as he leans back on the counter, eyes trained on the ground. His expression is unreadable, but they all know that he’s been hit just as hard.

None of them know as much about casting as Yoongi does, not even Namjoon, but almost every Northerner knows what that spell does. It means “death of memories,” and it cannot be reversed.

The F&F has been abusing it for decades. First using it in weak doses on humanic people to keep them ignorant about the realities of atypicals, then using it full potency on atypicals to make them mindless slaves.

They don’t know what that facility was planning on using you for, but clearly they didn’t want you to have your memories to do it.

“How strong?” Taehyung asks. His eyes are glassy, chin wobbling despite his efforts to fight it.

They all look to Namjoon for the answer. One of the abilities of wraiths is delving into a person’s mind through touch, including their memories.

Namjoon’s face holds a deep sorrow. Your head is a very dark place.

“Nearly full strength,” he replies. “We aren’t there. Not at all.”

Half of them feel sick to their stomachs, the other half burn with rage.

“What does she remember?” Jimin asks, eyes glassy.

Namjoon’s jaw clenches.

“A bit from childhood, her parents, and...the facility.”

It looks like it physically hurts him to say it. A long, weighted moment of silence.

“Joon?” Yoongi says, looking up for the first time since they entered the kitchen.

The younger man meets his elder’s gaze, waiting in anticipation for what he will say next. The redness in Yoongi’s eyes makes Namjoon want to hug him.

“What happened there?” Yoongi finally brings himself to ask.

Namjoon’s throat bobs as everyone looks at him once again. It all comes back to him, the pain, the torture, the loneliness felt through your skin. The shadow of it, at least. The memory of it. The real thing must’ve felt much worse.

“Let us see,” Jimin suddenly says, taking an eager step forward.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jimin,” Namjoon replies, gravely serious.

“It would help us get inside her head, see what she’s dealing with,” he argues, looking around for support.

Taehyung and Jungkook look just as eager, while Hoseok looks tempted by morbid curiosity. Yoongi’s trying not to make eye contact, worried that it might give away the fact that he secretly agrees with Jimin.

Seeing that he’s clearly outnumbered, Namjoon lets out a defeated sigh.

“Alright, but just a glimpse,” he says.

They begin to gather closely around Namjoon, until he holds a hand up.

“Not you, Jimin,” he says sternly.

“Why?” the shorter man whines, upset at being the only one left out.

“I really don’t think you should see this. For your own good.”

Everyone knows that Jimin was briefly imprisoned at a one of the same facilities, and every so often he gets triggered and descends into a rapid downward spiral plagued with nightmares and flashbacks.

He looks around and finds the rest of them looking at him imploringly. When he looks at Hoseok and Yoongi, they both give him a silent nod.

Jimin sighs and lets his shoulders sag. Despite the itch of not knowing, he trusts his partners to take care of him.

“Okay, hyung,” he says, stepping away to stand at the edge of the room.

Namjoon takes a deep inhale when they’ve all huddled in a semi-circle around him. Smoke begins to unfurl from his hands, his eyes clouding over. When he opens his mouth, a thick stream of gray vapor pours from his lips.

Everyone leans over to breath it in while Jimin covers his mouth and pinches his nose.

They feel it burn down their throats and warm their lungs, singeing all along their veins until it reaches the depths of their minds.

Then their vision goes dark, eyes clouding over just like Namjoon’s. Cold fear crawls up their spines, the ghost of hunger sitting in their bellies.

A thousand images, feelings, and sensations flash through them.

Countless miserable nights sleeping on hard, wet stone. Being wakened with a bucket of freezing water. Gagging on rotten food scraps to soothe the never ending ache of starvation.

A slap to the face every time you looked at an overseer without permission. Because you are beneath them, not even worthy to see the color of their eyes.

A kick to the ribs every time you made a single sound, every time you even breathed too loud.

The sting of needles, the heat of an iron brand. Electric shocks right to the nerve endings when you fell asleep without permission. Cigarettes stubbed out on your skin.

A spit in the face. Spit in your food, then being forced to eat it because it’s all you have. Having to lick water droplets off the rusted pipes.

Open wounds, tender bruises. An ache so deep it feels like you were born with it. Chained in awkward, uncomfortable positions for hours on end.

Disgusting thing. You are nothing. You will never leave this place. You disgrace the ground you walk on. I wish I could kill you myself.

Jungkook rips away first. He heaves the smoke out with violent, forceful breaths, stumbling back like it will distance him from what he’s seen.

Hoseok and Taehyung follow soon after, jerking away as they try to cough the memories out.

Yoongi lingers the longest. When he finally pulls away, his eyes are brimming with moisture.

None of them can hold it in any longer. Taehyung bursts into tears, face scrunching up with the weight of it all. He turns to the one closest to him, which is Jungkook, and lets his head fall on his on shoulder.

Jungkook automatically puts a comforting hand on his head, fighting back tears himself.

Seeing someone they love go through all that, seeing them get treated like dirt, it hurts it hurts it hurts.

Hoseok nearly bites through his tongue. All he can think about is revenge, making the ones who did this to you regret it more than they’ve ever regretted anything in their lives.

Jimin feels like he might throw up. Not because he’s in pain, but because he’s seeing his mates in pain, so much pain. And their pain pales in comparison to yours.

He’s grateful to Namjoon, grateful that he didn’t let him see inside your head.

Jungkook’s chest hiccups with sobs, and Jimin takes hold of Taehyung so Jungkook can fold up against Hoseok.

Tae buries his head in the fold of Jimin’s neck. Hoseok wraps Jungkook in a bear hug to soothe his hitching breaths.

Yoongi, who’s held strong up until this point, finally succumbs and lets himself go limp in Namjoon’s hold, who was right behind him in case he should need him.

For several minutes, the air is filled with nothing but heart-wrenching cries and quiet snivels.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, she’s safe now,” Namjoon says to no one in particular, still supporting Yoongi’s weight.

Jungkook’s gaze has gone foggy. The hell of that place won’t get out of his head. All he can think of is how he wasn’t there, he wasn’t there to take the pain instead. It should’ve been him.

Taehyung’s balling like a baby, he couldn’t speak if he tried to. His chest is close to bursting, swollen with so many emotions that he can’t decide which ones hurt the most. The pain of knowing what you went through, the rage towards the ones responsible, the guilt of not being there to protect you, the sorrow of knowing that he’s a stranger to you now.

Jimin is torn between breaking down himself and being strong for his mates. He feels the pressure behind his eyes, but he blinks it away and holds Taehyung tighter, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“Why?” Tae asks in a broken voice, finally saying what they’re all thinking.

Why would anyone do this?

“They must’ve not wanted her to know what she was capable of,” Namjoon answers.

It makes sense. You were a skilled caster along with Yoongi, the spells you and him collaborated on were some of the most powerful they’d ever seen. You were incredibly knowledgeable after spending years studying alongside Namjoon, partnering with him during many of his research projects.

You were always sharp, strong, and absolutely deadly in your final form.

“What are we going to do?” Jungkook asks, barely above a whisper.

“What we’ve always done,” Yoongi replies almost instantly, shifting to fully support his own weight. “We’re gong to do what’s best for her.”

Seeing him regain his quiet composure gives the rest of them the strength to wipe the last of their tears away.

“She’s been kept in isolation, starved...tortured.”

They all hear the catch in Yoongi’s voice at the word.

“Her trust in people has been completely broken. It will take some time before she feels safe again, before she can handle a normal diet, before she’s comfortable with being touched.”

That part is going to be difficult for most of them. After all the years of hand holding, cuddling, all the comforting embraces, it’s going to be hard to refrain from trying to soothe you with physical touch.

“No doubt she’s overwhelmed and confused as it is,” Yoongi says, then he pauses like he’s gearing up to say something difficult.

“So I think it’s best if we don’t overwhelm her further by telling her who we are. At least not now.”

Silence. Uncomfortable, choking silence.

“Just...pretend we haven’t met before?” Hoseok says, disbelieving.

“Not pretend, just...don’t acknowledge it,” Yoongi says. “Right now, we’re just a group of strangers that whisked her away from everything she ever knew.”

“We don’t even know how much she knows about what we are. Everyone knows standard protocol for those places is extended brainwashing,” Namjoon adds.

That makes them stop and think. What does she know about atypicals? Did they make you despise them like Southerners do? Do you even know about the soul bond? Do you even know what you are?

“Won’t that make her feel lied to?” Jimin asks.

“I assume she’d feel more lied to if we tried to convince her that she’s known us for years. It might make her feel like we’re trying to trick her into trusting us,” Namjoon explains.

“It might pressure her into trying to remember things she can’t, to be the person she used to be,” Jungkook says, eyes still glazed over.

And all of them know that you’ll never be the person you used to be.

“She has to trust us on her own, not because we tell her that she should,” Yoongi asserts.

Another stretch of silence.

“For how long?” Tae asks.

“Not for long, just until she feels safe here. Until she decides that she want to stay here, Yoongi continues.

“I don’t know,” Taehyung says. He doesn’t know if he can pretend that you’re not his mate, like you aren’t a vital piece of him.

“We’ll just take it day by day,” Hoseok begins, seeming more convinced by the whole idea. “Right now, our biggest priority should be making her feel safe.”

Nods all around.

“What...” Jimin starts, voice trailing off with uncertainty. “What if she wants to leave?”

None of them can think of a reply to that.

The next second, footsteps sound from the hallway. The shifters can smell you coming, and you no longer stink of dried blood.

Jin rounds the corner, closely followed by your sluggish form, looking exhausted and shaky.

A jolt of fear in your chest from being confronted by all of them again, and the rest of them feel it in the pit of their hearts. The fact that their own mate feels endangered by them, in your own home, elicits a fresh sting.

There’s moment of dull quiet where nobody moves, too afraid to make a wrong move.

Yet again, their leader guides them in the right direction.

Namjoon steps forward with a warm smile on his face, slouching his shoulders to look less tall and threatening in your eyes.

“You must be hungry.”

a/n: thank you for reading til the end! comment any thoughts or reactions i love to hear them :) sorry if i forgot anyone on the taglist!

taglist: @jeepersjiminie @scuzmunkie @anchovyinajar @btsiguess-kpop @btspurplesky @emu007 @goldeneclipsedragon @serendididy @namjoons-bug @angryperfectionpersona @wittyreader @ariavaana @crazy-person @kyrah-williams @leehaechanlee @jinkajous @dolliecat @reallysparklychaos @xmochiloverx @queen-in-the-shadows @astrids-pandora @kapten-xouk @anonynim @massiekurrb @tito-the-mermaid @bangtannie7 @veronawrites @karlalands @gooooomz @iceprincessviviane @mugiwaraelly @iwuzhere @fl0r4f4wn @welcometomyworld13 @chatsgotmytongue @uarmyhore @djodjom1 @singukieee @ee101abc @effielumiere @slinekyu @azalea-nyx @jcrml @schokoshaker @tirouxdreemurr @blancflms @lovelysneer @blackravena @illnevertrustmyselfagain @mirahuyooo @blank-et-noir @sld88

#bts ot7 #bts x reader #bts #bts ot7 fanfic #bts angst #bts fluff #bts hurt/comfort #bts soulmate au #bts supernatural au #bts x female reader #BTS jin #bts yoongi #bts hosoek #bts namjoon #BTS jimin #bts taehyung #BTS jungkook #bts fanfction #bts fantasy au

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numberonetrashwitch · 8 months

Text

Since this is such a good question, i want to answer it in full. Obviously Spoiler for BG3 / Astarions Questline "The Pale Elf" Vampirism is a Curse

Despite the evidence you can find in the Szarr Manor, i don't think Vampirism is (just) a disease. It is infernal in nature and more akin to a curse, and one that whittles away your humanity - but in levels, the more "infected" you are, the more it turns you into a power-hungry monster. It's also something that Astarion will tell you early on (under the right conditions of course) We also see this in the Palace itself, once we find the remains of the Vampire that turned Cazador. You'll learn what that Vampire did to Cazador - and how it panned out. That is because once you'll turn your Spawn into Vampires, they automatically become your Enemy in the endless fight for control/power

Weakness (this includes mercy) will get you killed if you're a Vampire.

Abuse / Trauma is Cyclical, and a bitch

Astarion didn't just face 200 years of trauma, but as we know through various interactions, was mentally and physically tortured. We're talking about flaying, sensory deprevation, starvation, repeated verbal abuse. Now, victims of this kind of abuse always fault themselves for it, even if they rationally know it's not their fault. Especially if mental torture is involved, these words, bearing enough repetition, will convince you - regardless of your resolve.

That is a loss of control, victims of with often either get addicted to, or will try to avoid it at any cost neccessary. The first kind will often seek out the situation in which they have been abused and try to recreate (or exced) the risk involved, the second type - to which Astarion belongs in my opinion - seeks to gain control, even over trivial matters, as a way to ensure that their needs are met. Nobody has been nice to him in 200 years, and then came Tav... he doesn't understand why they are so kind to him, but it feels good to be seen as more than a toy, a prostitute, a monster, - all the things he sees himself as, still, even away from Cazador. If you break up with Astarion before freeing him, he'll actually say that he knew it wouldn't last simply because he has "nothing to offer Tav, except his burdens"

(snippet of exactly that, in german) Yes, Astarion presents himself as this self-obsessed, smug Guy but that is all a facade to hide how he actually feels; weak, pathetic, lonely, useless, at fault for his abuse.

He is utterly in "love" with Tav.

Remember, Tav is the first person to see Astarion as more than just an object but as a person, and, on top of that, a person deserving of love and affection, regardless of what he brought to the table.

This feels good. Now, again, with Vampires everything comes down to power, and he can't have Tav leave. In this mix of dark urges & new, relatively unexplored feelings his love for Tav turns into an Obsession; He will not let them leave.

I will refer to @morgana-ren who has this point flashed out way more, but in short - by turning Tav into Spawn Astarion essentially ensures that they can't be taken from him. Neither through (natural) death nor by her own will, should they find out that Astarion has in fact, turned into a monster.

paraphrased: "don't move too far away from me... but you wouldn't do that, right?"

If you break up with him after he ascended and bit you, he will laugh in your face and not allow you to leave. You're his, after all.

There you have it, an in-depth answer to this question.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #non-witchy #baldurs gate #baldurs gate astarion #spoiler

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shywhumpauthor · 5 months

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I am obsessed with the villain rehab writing and the whumper turned whumpee writing you did! Would you ever write a continuation to either of them?

Haha let’s pretend this wasn’t from February I’m so sorry

I always liked this piece, I never really had any motivation to continue it. I got an ask from an anon earlier this month for a continuation of this but from a different angle. That was my intention when writing this, but it was getting to be too long so the ideas in that ask will be included in the next part

To the anon who sent the ask earlier this month, it’s coming! I pinky promise. I loved the idea so much actually. Hero better hurry up

Villain Rehab Part Two

Continued directly from Part One

Cw: institutionalized abuse/torture, vague medical malpractice, manhandling, restraints, torture disguised as “treatment”, blood, sensory deprivation, starvation, blunt force trauma, implied broken bones, captivity setting, light suffocation/choking, vague themes of abandonment, mentions of accidental self harm/burning (villain has fire powers)

The guards were on them a moment later, barking orders, pushing and shoving them. A cold numbness that budded in their chest was quickly spreading, swallowing the voices and sensations around them. Vaguely, they registered a guard unhook the chain connecting their cuffs to the table, another grabbing them under an arm and hauling them up to stand. Villain’s feet moved along with them, steps hesitant but unresistant as they were led from the room.

The bag of food Hero had brought remained on the table, untouched. The thought of eating left a bitter taste in Villain’s mouth.

When they got to the corridor Villain knew their room resided in, a small spark of relief flickered through the fog that clouded their body. A sudden, intense longing to bury themself under the thin blanket on their bed seized their chest. Instead of pausing by the door, the guards that flanked them continued walking, leaving Villain to look back over their shoulder, faltering slightly. One of the guards’ hands found their hair, twisting their head around to face forwards.

“Don’t resist,” the guard ordered gruffly as Villain stumbled, not giving them a second to center their balance as the pair continued to pull them forwards.

They didn’t move that much further before stopping outside a different door. It looked similar to that of the block Villain was assigned to, but instead of a big “E” painted on it to indicate the hall, the blocky letter “F” glared back at them.

Over the months, they had learned the system, or at least their own interpretation. The “A” block was the most lenient, with the smiling patients and the group activities and the walks through the courtyard. The ones that weren’t a danger, that could be trusted. The “B” block required a bit more supervision, but they were often allowed to interact with the residents of the A block, most of the same privileges as far as Villain was aware. They had never been in either, so they weren’t really sure of the differences, if there were any. The C block was isolated from A and B, contained within their own wing. Villain hadn’t spent any time there either, but they knew that from C and up, the sectors did not interact.

Villain had started in “D”, so they knew a bit more about that. They hadn’t spent long there. Most of the patients were kept separated from each other, each had their own room and such. Villain remembered the beds—actual beds, not cots. They were far from perfect, but looking back they were a luxury. That described every aspect of D, honestly. The food was crap but at least it was food. Chicken, vegetables, rice, standard meals with little flavor or seasoning. It had reminded them of cafeteria food, but in comparison to the tasteless crap they gave in E, it was the most delicious thing they’d ever tasted.

D had had actual staff members, not just guards. Attendants and nurses would deliver their meals, stay and talk to them for a short while if they wanted. Villain had never earned the privilege, but they knew that things like books and puzzles were obtainable in D with “stellar behavior”, as they’d been told.

Restraints in D had been rare and based off true necessity, never left on for long. They remembered the padded leather feeling against their wrists and ankles, the terror that had bubbled in their chest when they were first secured to their bed following an “outburst”. A staff member had checked on them every so often, shadowed by a guard. It couldn’t have been more than six hours before they were released, once they had been determined to be stable and no longer a threat. They couldn’t believe how they had felt the first time, how pathetic it was. How pathetic they had been. They’d long since gotten used to the restrictions of the cuffs.

They couldn’t have spent more than a week in D before they were moved due to what the doctors would refer to as the incident. It had been an accident, they really didn’t mean to. No, if Villain had meant to, things would’ve turned out much worse. They hadn’t even been awake, it was a nightmare. They had jolted awake in a panic to burning blankets, blisters swelling along their palms. They were moved to block E before breakfast.

The difference between D and E was drastic and certainly for the worse. They had spent the rest of their stay in E, until now. The unspoken threat of the next corridor had kept them in line, and though there were small incidents along the way, but nothing big enough to warrant a level change. Those slip ups were dealt with, consequences such as loss of meals or increased therapy sessions following.

They couldn’t think of why they were being moved up. They were far from perfect, but hadn’t it been clear that they were trying? No, obviously not.

You’re not willing to put in the effort, that’s what Hero had said. Villain’s stomach flipped.

There were two scanners on either side of the door. Both of the guards had to scan their keycards and enter a code for it to hiss and slide open. They escorted Villain in, and the door closed behind them.

It was noticeably colder. The compound couldn’t be considered warm, at least not the parts Villain had ever been in, but this was freezing freezing. The hallway was shorter than the others, doors stationed evenly on either side. There were numbers above each door, stretching from 1 to 12. The hall was narrow, so much so that it was tight for the three of them standing shoulder to shoulder, each guard only inches from the wall. It was darker, though the lights seemed brighter. Cold, LED whites that burned Villain’s eyes to look at. At the other end of the hall, there was another door, slightly different from the rest. Instead of a number, above it simply read “Control”. Villain wasn’t sure what that meant, or if they wanted to find out.

The guards pulled them down the hallway, stopping outside of a door with the number 9 above it. There was a bolt lock at the top and the bottom, both already undone. Above the handle, there was another thicker deadbolt lock, and another scanner like the one outside of the hall’s entrance. The guard to their left reached for the identification tag at his chest, pulling it against the retractor to reach the sensor. A quick buzz and a small green flash of light granted him access, and he tugged open the deadbolt above the handle, pulling the door open, sidestepping so it didn’t hit him.

The room was bare and small, a low ceiling that Villain could probably touch if they stood straight and raised their arms. The walls and floor were all made from smooth concrete, as was the ceiling. It was dark, but with the light seeping from the hall they could see the outline of a flat light on the ceiling, and a vent near the light. It was empty, completely empty except for the black eye of a camera above the door, a red light indicating its functioning status, a small circular drain in the center of the floor, and a metal hook built into the wall opposite the door, close to the floor. Connected to that hook was a short chain, couldn’t be more than a three feet long, with a thick metal loop opened at a clasp.

Villain’s stomach dropped as one of the guards pushed them forwards, rough hands on their shoulders shoving them down to the floor. A dull flare of pain jolted up their arms as they caught themself with their forearms, the cuffs around their wrists clinking against the floor.

“Wa- wait,” Villain croaked, their voice scraping against their throat and they tried to twist around, but a boot planted firmly in their back, forcing them down. A strangled grunt escaped their chapped lips as that boot soon turned into a knee, digging into their spine as the guard knelt down. Their chest heaved as they tried to draw in air against the pressure pinning them to the floor, which the guard must have mistaken as an attempt of protest. It didn’t take him a moment to react, a hand twisting in Villain’s hair and quickly slamming their face into the concrete.

“Stop resisting,” the guard growled.

Villain grunted, a flash of light exploding in front of their eyes as their head made hard contact with the ground. They swore they heard a crunch, the taste of iron quickly flooding their mouth and clogging their nostrils. The guard reached forwards, the pressure on Villain’s back increasing as he put more weight against them in order to reach the chain. The metal links scraped against the floor as he pulled the looped end closer, fooling with it for a moment.

Hot tears welled in Villain’s eyes, the initial shock of the impact quickly shrinking to the pain radiating back through their skull. Something seared against their hands, burning but they barely registered it. Something cold pressed against their throat, digging in for a moment before it latched with a click, catching a few strands of their hair in the clasp.

The pressure on their back released and Villain twisted to their side, blood dripping down their throat. They stumbled up, but a pressure around their throat tugged them back down, the links of the chain clinking with their movement. They coughed, spitting blood as their chained hands rose to their face. Their palms were burning, heat twisting down their forearms but that was a pain they were used to. Their lungs were starting to ache, but each attempt to draw in air only brought more blood flooding into their mouth. They looked up, vision blurred with the tears that freely dripped down their cheeks, mingling with the blood on their chin. All they saw was a flash of the two guards, both looking down on them with disgusted expressions before the door shut heavily, and all they heard was the mechanical click of the lock, followed by three heavier thumps of the deadbolts being pushed into place.

The room was dark, completely dark. Not even a sliver of light filtered beneath the door. The only thing they could see was the small bead of dull red light, letting them know that they were being watched. It was silent, not even the hiss of the vents could be heard, only their own heaving breaths and strangled sobs.

#whump #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #its me coal #coal wrote something #whumpee #whumper #villain whump #villain whumpee #hero x villain #captivity whump #whump drabble #kidnapped whumpee #hero villain whump #medical whump

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