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bbu-whump-reblogs · 18 days ago

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Nobody is Coming

Bradley isn't picked up from school.

Both canon in the later arcs of Pet Safety and Angel, set shortly after Pirate Lady.

Content / warnings: Recovery, loss, the feeling of being left behind, implied parental neglect. An unlikely pair of hurt people maybe about to grow together. Implication of BBU setting.

Bradley was perched on the little stone wall by the school's music wing, his guitar case next to him. Class was over, but he wasn't going to be picked up.

"Your pet is never late," Mr Oliver, the music teacher, commented after a long stare at his watch.

Wrong on so many levels, Bradley thought. But he didn't say it. He didn't ask him to call Rosa by her name instead of her status, either. He had done so, hundreds of times. Stood up for her, or at least tried to. And she hadn't even turned around when she left him.

"She's not coming," Bradley said.

Mr Oliver frowned. "Well. Who is?"

Bradley shrugged. "Nobody."

"I'm going to call your Da-" He stopped with a sudden flush of redness burning on his cheeks. Bradley gritted his teeth. He'd internally dared him to say it out loud.

Dad. Dead. Mom. Refusing to answer her phone. Probably drunk on mimosas in some day spa. Sister. Ran off to California first chance she got. Rosa. Rosa. Left with a stranger without turning around.

"Nobody." Bradley repeated stoically.

"Well, I'm going to call someone to pick you up."

Bradley shrugged again. The police, he wondered. Social services?

"Isn't your uncle in town, too?"

Tim.

Bradley shot his teacher a long look. Was Mr Oliver the only one in town who hadn't excessively read every single detail about the drama that had left both his father and uncle killed?

"Dead," he said shortly.

"Aunt?"

I don't have an aunt, he wanted to say. But he did, he realized. Angelina. The woman his mother blamed for literally everything that had happened in the past horrible months. The one who 'destroyed the family'.

She hadn't, Bradley thought. Their family had been rotten within. Angelina had just brought all the rot to the surface.

His mother would hate it.

"Um." Bradley said. "Yeah. I guess."

He didn't have her mobile number, but he found a landline in Uncle Tim's contact.

Mr Oliver turned away as he called, but someone did seem to answer, because he started to quickly speak into the phone.

"She's coming," he said to Bradley, after he hung up. And then, with a sudden gravity to his voice, as if he'd just now realized that Bradley had indeed had some pretty not great weeks, he added "I'll wait here with you."

Twenty minutes late, Angelina Harris turned around the corner in Uncle Tim's sleek black Mercedes. When she got out, the wind played with her long blond hair, billowed into the light blue coat and exposed her white silk blouse and tight blue jeans.

Next to him, Mr Oliver sucked in some air. Bradley grimaced. Yeah. Some men did that, when they saw her.

"Ms Harris," he said and strode forward to clasp her hand between both his. "So sorry for your loss."

Angelina tilted her head politely, her mouth curved into a tiny, pained smile.

She was better at the act than himself, Bradley figured. Whenever someone offered him condolences he couldn't do anything else but shrug it off rudely.

He jumped from the wall and pushed himself and his guitar through them, breaking off his teacher's grasp of her hand.

"Thank you for waiting with me, Sir," he said. "My aunt has got it from here. Bye."

Almost embarrassed, Mr Oliver stepped back, as Bradley stowed his guitar on the back seat and slid onto the passenger seat.

Angelina got in at the same time, pulled the door shut, but didn't turn on the ignition.

Instead she turned over to face him, hands in her lap, one eyebrow raised.

"Do I?" She asked.

"What?"

"Have got it from here? It sure doesn't feel like it." She frowned. "Why me, Bradley?"

He didn't look her in the eyes. He tried to count the freckles on her cheeks instead. "Rosa left," he mumbled. "Everyone left."

"Why me? Your mother hates me. She-" Angelina paused, suddenly pale under her freckles. "Wait. What happened to Rosa? Did your mother do something? Did she send her -"

Bradley shook his head. "Mum doesn't even know yet, I think." He stared down at his fingers. "Rosa just walked out."

"Pets don't -"

"Call her Rosa," he snapped. "She's a person, the only person who ever -" Cared about me, he thinks. Loved me. But she didn't. He had seen what love looked like on Rosa's face, when the stranger rang at their door. She'd never loved him.

Something cool wrapped around his wrist and only belated did he realize it was Angelina's hand. "Don't." She said. "Don't hurt yourself."

Numbly he started at his knuckles. They hurt. A little blood welled up from a small cut. He'd punched the window.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry, I-"

"Can you drive?"

The question was so strange, it stopped him from rocking in the seat.

"I'm fourteen," he said plainly.

"That's not what I asked."

"I'm not allowed to drive."

"Can you?"

He remembered hours on the parking lot of the closed convenience store, Sloane by his side, patiently guiding him. Their plan had been to take the care and just drive West steadily. Change drivers, when one of them would have to sleep, Sloane had explained. Get away from their parents influence as quickly as possible, and build up a new life somewhere else.

She'd done it, in the end. Without him.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I can."

"I can't," she said, just as plainly. "You drive us home."

"You got here, somehow."

"Barely." She dropped the key on his lap.

"It's illegal."

"Fuck the rules." She seemed startled herself by her words, but also somewhat... delighted.

Stunned, Bradley took the keys.

They didn't get out to change seats. On some silent agreement, she slid over onto the passenger seat under him, before he shifted to the driver's seat.

"Rules that only enforce oppression need to be broken." She bit her lip, and the matter seemed to important to her, that Bradley didn't see fit to tell her that traffic rules had been implemented to safe lives. It probably wasn't the point here. "Rosa broke your mom's rules and I hope she found freedom." She looked at him from clear brown eyes, a stare so intense that he couldn't break free. "She broke your rules, too, Bradley, didn't she? But if she's a person, as you say, and as I think she is, too, these rules ate wrong. Have been wrong, for all your lifetime. The rules were her prison. And she left it."

Her smile was soft. "It's good that you called me. You were wrong, thinking that I've got it from here. But I think I'm a step closer to figuring it out."

She didn't say So are you.

He heard it anyway. And maybe, she was right.

"Tell me where we're going," he said, and turned the key in the ignition.

Angelina leaned back in her seat, squinted at the blue afternoon sky.

"The sea," she suggested. "What about that?"

Bradley smiled.

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 18 days ago

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Hear No Evil - Chapter 2

Masterlist

Chapter 1 // Next (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual nudity, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan hadn’t slept. Ever since he’d signed those papers, and ever since a tag reading sold was affixed to the top of the boy’s cage, he’d been caught in a whirlwind of panicked activity. There was so much to do, and not enough time to do it. As he walked out of the WRU warehouse, his head was spinning. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the essential rescue training he was missing, how much knowledge he lacked compared to the PLF’s experienced rehabilitators.

“Your delivery is scheduled between eleven and one,” the saleswoman had said as she handed him the paperwork, like the boy was a piece of furniture. There’d been no background check, no inquiry as to his credentials, no investigation to ensure that he was purchasing a pet for its intended purposes. The only questionnaire he’d been asked to fill out was related to his satisfaction with WRU’s service at the event – a survey he’d politely declined.

Just like that, with a stroke of a pen and a touch of his credit card to a digital terminal, Rowan had been granted the legal possession of a human being.

Still dizzy from the weight of responsibility he had just created, Rowan came to his senses long enough to make it home from the liquidation event. The rest of the day, and the rest of that night, were spent trying to make his condo ready for the incoming arrival.

Dawn hadn’t yet come when Rowan’s phone buzzed. He stopped fussing with the clothes in the hamper long enough to see it was a text from “Josh J. (Work)”

Sure man, I’ll cover your shifts this week. Everything good? You basically never take PTO.

No, Rowan wanted to reply, things were most decidedly not good. He’d acted on a rash impulse and was way out of his depth. As someone who’d been working for a decade and a half as a pet liberationist, he’d sworn to do good. He’d sworn to dismantle the system, to save who he could, to protest injustice. All that time, all that effort, and he’d still put money right into WRU’s hands in a moment of weakness.

And for what? To bring home a victim he didn’t have the knowledge or skills to help? This wasn’t even a victim that was prioritized for rescue, one with a strong chance at rehabilitation and reintegration into society, but a young man from a liquidation event with some undisclosed and undiagnosed problem.

All of that, however, wasn’t his colleague’s problem. Rowan grit his teeth and drafted what he figured was an innocent white lie.

Yeah, I’m fine. It was a hectic weekend and I realized I haven’t taken time to breathe in years. I’d think I’ve earned a few days away.

He didn’t want to elaborate any further.

Hell yeah. The response buzzed almost instantly. Then another. You fucking deserve it. No one hustles like you, boss. Crack a beer, put on the PGA, and I’ll try to make sure the station doesn’t burn down before next Monday.

Rowan would most certainly not be cracking a few beers and putting golf on the TV. At that very moment, he was doing his best not to get sick from worry or pass out from exhaustion. There were mere hours between his present breath and the boy’s arrival.

He’d spent the night doing his best to get ready to face the consequences of his actions. He’d combed the PLF volunteer site and tried to read every manual they had available on rehabilitating victims. He’d pulled his desk and computer out of the windowless den and set up the futon to make a bed, something resembling a room for the boy to call his own. He’d run out to the nearest department store and filled his arms with clothes that would be close to the boy’s size, at least from what Rowan could best guess looking over the papers. He’d tried to clean up the condo, but it was going to be impossible to make the space look livable before his latest acquisition arrived.

Hole-ridden sheets stretched over an ancient futon, clothes that likely wouldn’t fit right, the last of the toiletries Rowan could find in the drawers, a bathroom that had been hastily scrubbed with Comet from the very back of the closet - it all would have to be good enough for now. It just had to be good enough until Rowan could get his shit together.

It wasn’t much comfort to tell himself that it was probably better than what the boy had had in a long time.

As his shaking hands tried to fold yet another oversized sweatshirt - the boy would like that, wouldn’t he, something comfortable and warm? - Rowan knew there was one more call he had to make before the boy’s arrival. As much as he wanted to run from the reality of what he’d done, hide in shame from the fact his impulses had brought him to such an untenable situation, he also knew that he couldn’t get through this alone. He’d signed the papers, the charge had hit his card, he’d shaken the salesperson’s hand. He now legally owned a human being, a trafficking victim, an abuse survivor.

Folding laundry would have to wait. It was already almost seven in the morning, and the day wasn’t getting any younger. Rowan heaved a shaking breath from his lungs and sat down on the couch cushion next to the hamper. He hated how much his fingers trembled as he hovered over the familiar contact in his favorites list. It was two hours later on the east coast, and Grey would be on his way to the office if he wasn’t there already.

A lump lodged in Rowan’s throat as he hesitated again, face hot with shame. He’d come to his extensive privileges with the PLF through consistent dedication to the cause. His typical level-headedness and rationality had prevailed time and again, earning him promotion after promotion. He was one of their most crucial and well-hidden operatives currently active in the field. And yet, and yet, here he was, a pet arriving at his doorstep with no foresight or forewarning.

“How are you supposed to help this victim recover if you can’t even make a phone call, you idiot?” Rowan chastised himself through a grimace as he rubbed his palm across his furrowed brows. Rationally, making this phone call was the best way to get both himself and his incoming houseguest the help that they needed. Rationally, Rowan knew that he had to make this phone call sooner or later. But rationality hadn’t exactly been the captain of his choices over the last twenty-four hours.

It took another minute of gnawing on his lower lip before Rowan finally brought himself to hit the call button. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and-

“Hey there, Rowan! How’s my favorite videographer and secret agent?” The familiar and ever-cheerful voice washed over Rowan like a ray of welcome sunlight. It was warm and relieving, and some of Rowan’s tension immediately melted away. He could do this.

“Morning, Grey.”

“Yeah, it’s a morning indeed! What is it, not even seven there yet? Early morning for a busy man. You doing alright after the liquidation event yesterday? Any chance to pull footage or sound bytes yet? I’ve told her she needs to be patient, but you know Darcy is when they’re waiting on new content for our socials.”

Rowan took a breath and closed his eyes.

“Listen, man, I need your help. I went to the liquidation event, I got set up to take footage like I always did, they let me in without a hitch. But- but I might have done something a little impulsive when I was there.” The entirety of the admission wasn’t quite ready to come to Rowan’s lips, the words lodged somewhere behind the lump in his throat.

“Please don’t tell me they clocked you,” Grey groaned, his words thick with anxiety. It was the groan of worry that came with all the stresses of Grey’s status.

The two friends might have begun their time at the PLF together back in college, but while Rowan had been content as an agent with boots on the ground and neck on the line, but Grey’s ambition had taken him on the executive track. While Rowan busied himself with infiltrating warehouses and transportation trucks, Grey had climbed the ranks to become Vice President of the North American Division of the PLF. Although their career paths had diverged along with their practices, they’d remained as close as ever through their ideals and hard-fought friendship. And so Grey had become a full-time liberation executive, while Rowan kept his craft to weekends and evenings between his full-time job at the TV station.

“No, nothing like that,” Rowan said, falling over his words as he tried to soothe Grey’s fears. “No cops, no drama, no one suspected a thing. I got all of the footage I’d hoped to get, some sound bytes too. There was some seriously fucked up stuff, worse than usual, and it’ll make some great clips for us, this is some really great material. I’ll be editing it this weekend, at least I’d planned to do that, and-“

“Take a breath, man, take a breath. If you got in and out without a hitch, why’s the sky falling?”

Rowan swallowed, and pressed on.

“I- I, uh- I saw a victim there. I mean, I saw a lot of them, right, that’s the whole point of the event, that’s why we go. But you know, there was this one. There was something different about this one, okay? I can’t tell you what it was, you just, you’d have to see it to believe it, to feel what I felt. I looked at him, and I just- I couldn’t say no. It’s like he begged me to live with just his eyes. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I mean never, and you know how long I’ve been doing this. So I- I guess- I rescued him. Bought him, really, if I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Cash upfront for a lifetime contract, signed on the warehouse floor, delivery set for later this afternoon. He should arrive in about four hours, actually, now that I look at the time.”

There was a pause, and Rowan could hear a slight crackling over the line as Grey took a breath. Finally, when Grey’s voice came again, it was more tired than Rowan had heard in quite some time.

“Jesus Christ,” Grey muttered. Rowan could picture his exasperated face even from more than a thousand miles away. “What were you thinking? You aren’t trained as a rescuer, you haven’t been assigned a rehabilitation team, and there’s no way we can get him in for an urgent medical work-up on such short notice. We’re not prepared for another intake, and you’re not-“

“I know, I know. I fucked up. I fucked up big time.” It was Rowan’s turn to cut his friend off. That guilt, that shame, it was heavier and heavier as Grey confirmed Rowan’s worst fears. This was a fuck-up on a massive scale. But there was no going back now. That boy was going to be in his home today, and he was going to be alive. That had to count for something, right?

“What’s wrong with him, huh?” Grey asked this over the sound of distant keystrokes. It was like the frustration from just moments ago had dissipated, and the confident leader had emerged with an air of business around him. It was that very trait that had made Grey a no-brainer for such a high-ranking role within the PLF. “You rescued him from a liquidation event, so this isn’t going to be a standard rescue case. Give me some more details, and I can try to connect you to a rehabilitator nearby for immediate and emergency intervention. I’ll need you to send me scans of the purchase papers, the ones with your contract, as well as any that come in his box later. Do you have his WRU ID number? I’m opening a rescue file in our system for him now.”

And now it was Rowan’s turn to let out a breath of relief. There was no anger left – no, there never had been anger to begin with – as Grey proved that he was every inch the liberationist that hundreds admired him to be. If Grey was going to scold Rowan, it would come at a much later time.

“I don’t actually know why he was sent for liquidation,” Rowan admitted as he hauled himself off the couch and walked back over to the kitchen table. It was piled with papers and books, all displaced during his frenzied cleaning and preparatory efforts, and it would probably take him some time to figure out where he’d actually put the contract papers. “I only had a few moments of contact with him on the floor, and the sales agent was vague. I looked over the papers, but it was only as far as the sales agent had mentioned in their words – he’s a dual-trained Domestic-Romantic with no apparent problems other than so-called ‘selective obedience.’ He apparently went through their standard and advanced refurbishment programs, but that didn’t fix the obedience issues. Cognitively, he was attentive and lively on the floor, capable of making eye contact and engaging with his surroundings. Physically, well, it was hard to tell under the jumpsuit. I saw some of the usual scarring under his uniform, and some fresh wounds on the sides of his face, but that’s it.”

Grey hummed as the keystrokes continued.

“Alright, well, that’s not really helpful. Sometimes they don’t share the true reason for the liquidation, and it’s up for the rescuer and their team to figure out the extent of the issues. I’ll need to get you a case manager who can follow up once he’s had his medical work-up and paperwork fully reviewed. It looks like our roster has a special-instance rehabilitator located about twenty minutes away from you, and I’ve already got her assigned to the case in our system. She’ll be the person you report to until we get a case manager for you both. She’s been with the PLF for about four years now, with twelve total successful rehabilitations, eight being special cases from liquidation events or other emergency rescues. I’ve sent her your contact information just now, and I told her to reach out as soon as possible. I hope she can get out there today, it being a Sunday and all. Her name is Angela Herrera, phone number ending in 8742, so pick it up when she calls.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Grey.” These five minutes had already changed everything. Rowan – and the boy – weren’t in this alone. They had not just the weight of the PLF, but the power of Rowan’s dearest friend, behind them now. Help was on the way. And by god, Rowan was going to take that help with open arms.

Grey gave a soft, strained chuckle.

“No, you’re the miracle worker today. You have given a human being a second chance at life, and that’s worth more than all the money in the world. Now, I would never recommend what you’ve today done to anyone, and it’s not going to be an easy path forward. But I know you did it with a good heart, and with good intentions. Most of all, I know that you are more than capable to handle this, even in these less-than-ideal circumstances. You are strong and you are smart – you’re going to have to be, for the sake of this boy.”

“I know. I will be. I’m going to do this, and I’m going to do it right from here on out. Even if this is how it has to start, it’s by-the-book going forward. You have my word I am going to put my whole heart and soul into making this right. Not for my sake, but his.”

Even without words, Rowan could feel Grey smiling.

“I know. Of all the people in the world, I can always trust you, even if you’re an idiot sometimes. Don’t worry about the footage from the event until you have your new guest settled in, alright? Any new liberation material can wait, and if Darcy bugs you about it, tell them to talk to me. Make sure you read through the PLF rescue manual on the rehabilitation site, then when you’re done reading it, read it again. When your guest arrives make sure you use a conversational tone, soft voice, lots of praise, slow movements and hand gestures, all of that stuff we went over in training for interacting with victims in the early stages of recovery. I know it’s been years since you took the training, but it’ll come back to you.”

“Of course. I already have the manual printed out and on my table somewhere – fuck, I swear I printed it, along with ten thousand other things, it’s here somewhere – but I read it. I’ll read it again now, as soon as I hang up. I’ll let you go so you can get back to your job saving the world. I’ve got my hands full over here, I guess. And, Grey… thanks for your help. Really. I guess I should thank you for not chewing me out either.”

“Oh, don’t count that out yet,” Grey said. “I’ll save the chewing out for a more opportune time, well after your new guest is settled in. Hell, I hope I can do it in person. We’re overdue for a visit anyway, and of course I’d love to meet your guest.”

“Noted.” Rowan felt his smile twinge slightly into a grimace. Of course, he wouldn’t get let off the hook so easily, not under Grey’s watch. “I’ll be on the lookout for a call from Angela or you, yeah? Otherwise, I’ve got to finish getting ready.”

“Yes, of course. Like I said, call me if you need anything, and I mean anything. Just because I’m Vice President now doesn’t mean I’m not your friend. You call, and I will pick up.”

“Likewise. Always. Chat later, Grey.”

“Later, Rowan.”

As soon as Rowan hung up he collapsed back into the couch, the already-wrinkled rescue manual clutched between sweaty fingers. There was so much to learn, so much to do, and so little time to do it. But it had to be better than death, right? Whether that was a lie or the truth, it was what Rowan had to tell himself now. Grey was on his side, and the weight of the PLF was behind him. They were going to give this boy a fighting chance at life, a second chance to live as a man, and not as someone’s pet.

It would be Rowan’s greatest challenge yet.

---

The third cup of coffee had just finished brewing in Rowan’s coffee pot when there was a knock at the door. It was half-past eleven, and despite knowing that this moment had been coming, the tightness in Rowan’s chest suddenly became as heavy as a stone. There was hardly a breath left in his lungs as he stumbled in a daze to the door.

He peered through the peephole and, sure enough, there were two men in WRU-branded coveralls waiting on his welcome mat.

A final deep breath in, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings, and Rowan threw the door open.

“Good morning, Mr. Bailey. We’re here to complete your delivery.” The man’s voice was monotonous, droning, almost exhausted. It was like he was going door-to-door selling gym memberships rather than delivering a human being to a stranger’s home. And just as a salesman would, he shoved a clipboard with a thick stack of papers in Rowan’s direction.

“I need to scan your ID and have you fill out this confirmation paperwork. Once that’s done, my colleague and I will go get your delivery from the truck. As soon as it’s in your possession, you’ll have a final release paper to sign to effectuate the property transfer.”

Property. That’s all the boy was in the eyes of the law. In Rowan’s care he would be so much more, but for now, Rowan had to play into the charade for a few minutes longer. He grabbed the clipboard with sweating palms.

“Yeah, sure. Let me see those.” He scribbled something resembling his signature on any line he could find, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, and slammed the pen down as he reached the final page. “There, I think I’ve got it all. Here’s my driver’s license, that alright?”

The man looked over Rowan’s ID, apparently blasé as he matched the birth date on the plastic to the one Rowan had scrawled on the paper, then handed it back to Rowan with a grunt.

“Looks like everything’s in order here. We’ll be back in about ten minutes with your purchase. Does this building have a freight elevator? Tends to be a bit easier to maneuver for us.”

“Yeah, down the hall and to the left past the fire doors. Can’t miss it.”

“Great, thanks. We’ll be right back.”

And to their credit, they were. After only seven minutes of Rowan pacing his recently-cleaned hallway, all of his shoes tucked in the shoe rack rather than strewn across the tiles, a second knock came at the door. This time, when Rowan opened it, there was a large pine box on dollies between the two WRU personnel. The first thought that crossed Rowan’s mind was how much it looked like a coffin.

“Alright, here’s your delivery. Is the hallway fine, or do you have a room set aside?”

Rowan did have a room, but he didn’t want anyone associated with WRU in his home a moment longer than they had to be.

“Hallway is fine.”

“Great. Then we’ll go ahead and put your box there, and once we’ve got it off the dollies, we’ll require your signature right here.” Another paper on yet another clipboard was thrust into his hands, and Rowan’s mouth was dry as the box was rolled into his hall and heaved off the dolly and onto the floor. There wasn’t a sound except for the slight scrape of pine across the floor, and then the scratching of a half-dead ballpoint pen across paper, and then the shuffling of even more paper.

The WRU delivery staff gave a final look over where Rowan had signed before a forced smile came over their faces. The tall one spoke in a tired service voice, just like a cashier who was pitching a club card.

“Congratulations, Mr. Bailey, the transaction is complete and the property has been fully transferred into your ownership. The rest of the documentation for your purchase and otherwise accompanying the product are contained in the box, including an additional copy of the sales contract and the property’s medical and training records. Further information, if necessary, can be obtained from WRU directly, as can additional copies or digital copies of the necessary documentation. When putting any inquiry in with WRU, please use both your purchase number and the product’s WRU-issued identification number. If you’ve been satisfied with today’s service and delivery, please fill out the survey that will be sent to the email we have on file for you. While the cost of delivery was included with your purchase price, at the conclusion of the survey, you will have the option to leave a cash tip if you were particularly satisfied with today’s delivery service. Thank you for choosing WRU.”

The words bounced off Rowan’s consciousness as his attention turned to the box. The boy was in that box, waiting for him. All he could bring himself to do was wave off the delivery personnel with an open hand.

“Got it, I’ll look for the survey and all that. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to tend to my… purchase.”

Before they could respond Rowan shut the door on them. They would receive no additional praises or compensation for their role in facilitating this abuse. What mattered now was that Rowan was, legally, the boy’s owner. And the boy was here now in his possession.

Rare courage overcame Rowan. Perhaps it was the fear driving him, perhaps it was the anticipation, or perhaps it was delirium from the all-nighter. Whatever it was, Rowan didn’t spare a single spare moment before undoing the deadbolts on the top of the box and heaving the lid open.

And there, laying motionless in a bed of straw, naked but for the black leather collar around his neck, was the boy.

---

Light pierced the pet’s eyes like a bolt of lightning. Its ears had been ringing, and although it couldn’t hear what had transpired beyond the walls of its box aside from the slight murmur of voices, it had prepared for the lid of the box to be opened.

You’re lucky, Handler Green had said with his hand wrapped around the pet’s throat, moments before it was thrown into the box and the lid cut off any light. You’re not going to die today. This is your last chance, so don’t fuck it up.

The last few hours – had it been hours, or had it been longer? – in the box had been filled with little more than abject terror. No amount of breathing exercises or attempts at sleep had soothed its nerves. All it could think of was the future ahead, the new master that would await it once the box was finally opened, how it would make its first impression to the person that held its life in their hands. If it failed here and now, it would surely die.

All it wanted now, and all it had ever wanted, was to be a good pet who served its masters well. It rehearsed its positions between waves of panic attacks, it silently recited its old master’s favorite recipes step-by-step until the ingredients sounded like poetry in its mind, and it stretched each morning to keep itself flexible and pliable. It tried its best to listen in training, no matter how hard the ringing had made it. And when it received punishments or corrections, no matter how severe, it remained silent.

Now, with light streaming into its box, it had a final chance to prove that it was good. The pet was certain that it could be good, be useful, be the perfect pet its new master wanted. Though fear was sticky on its parched tongue, it knew from training that fear would lend itself to its determination and would likewise reduce its error rates. Today, on this very first date, that fear would serve it well.

Fear meant that it was still alive.

The pet had been specifically trained for this moment, and it was well-practiced in this first essential maneuver. Handler Green had gone over the routine with it again last night after it had been brought back to the training facility from the warehouse. For once, Handler Green hadn’t administered any additional punishments as they rehearsed the motions. Perhaps that meant the pet had done something right.

In those same fluid movements it had practiced just some hours ago, the pet sat up from where it had been nestled in the straw, heaved a leg over the side of the box, then another, and threw itself to the floor and onto its knees. Its legs tucked comfortably beneath it in the kneeling position, the same one it had been taught to assume from those earliest days in training. Its joints ached from the time in the box, but pain wouldn’t stop the pet now, it never did. The pet did many things wrong, but not this one small thing – it could kneel as long as its master needed.

And though the pet didn’t dare raise its eyes, the flash of movement from its hurried scramble to the floor confirmed its fearful suspicions. That same man that had stood outside its cage at the warehouse, the same one it had accidentally made eye contact with, was its master now.

Hands on its lap, the pet bowed its head, kept its gaze low and fixed on the dark wood floors. Although its ears rang, and although it couldn’t quite hear if Master was speaking, it strained for the relief and release of a command all the same. All it wanted was the chance to prove, once and for all, that it was good.

---

Taglist:

@honey-is-messi @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @squishablesunbeam @tragedyinblue

@clairelsonao3 @den-of-evil @cepheusgalaxy @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @whumpzone @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader

@dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast

@dokidokisadness @anonfromcanada @starfields08000 @bloodredfountainpen @pumpkin-spice-whump

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 29 days ago

Text

Season's Greetings

After last week's poll (thank you so much to everyone who participated!), here's the Christmas special for 238/training!Angel.

This is dedicated to and inspired by @angst-after-dark, Thane Barlow is their character.

As to be expected, it is pretty much leaning into smut. Enjoy!

[Making Angel]

Content/warnings: BBU, facility whump, institutional whump, nsfwhump, recorded whump, dubcon use of toys, male whumpers with female whumpee, whumper pov.

Walking through the hallways of facility 002 before Christmas was special, somehow. Even without any decoration among the sterile white, there was a festive mood to be felt, just from the way the handlers smiled when they greeted each other, or the spring to their steps.

The trainees wouldn't get any gifts for Christmas.

But the employees, they did.

As head handler, Jared Grimm had introduced various employee benefits; one of them a very popular Christmas tombola. Not everyone could get the main prize - taking home a pet over the holidays - especially not given the often more delicate nature of facility 002's acquisitions, but there were several more prizes: a full cleaning of the home before the relatives arrived, catering for Christmas dinner, a full styling and hairdo, all declared part of the facility's Domestics' training, all doing wonders for the workplace climate.

And there was of course, another choice group to receive Christmas gifts. Clients. Pretty much every case they handled in facility 002 was personal, meaningful for the prospective owners, and insanely price, too.

Personally tailored Season's Greetings were the least the facility could do.

Jared looked down at the instructions on his tablet. Alex had prepared a little script for each of the greetings. 238's prospective was to get a video. Technically, her primary handlers was meant to speak the opening words, but Alan Nguyen hadn't as much glanced at the notes, just lifted the Santa hat with two fingers and handed it back to Jared. "I did my professional due. Humiliating the girl. I will not humiliate myself for that douche and be his clown in a Santa hat. You do that alright."

Jared rolled his eyes. Arrogant douche himself. But Jared couldn't afford to annoy him - plus, he was the best handler they had, and there could be worse than spending some quality time with one of his trainees.

He pulled the hat over his head and nodded at the cameraman, waiting for his prompt to start speaking. "Good day, Mr Barlow! I'm Jared Grimm, WRU head handler, and it's my honor to send you Christmas greetings in the name of the entire company! We have a little something prepared for you behind this door, in honor of holiday season! Let's have a look!"

Jared got how it could feel little degrading indeed, playing the cheerful entertainer, but he was a WRU handler - he'd gone through worse for a lot less.

The door opened at a swipe of his card with a beep and a click, and cameraman panned to the door, filming through the crack where the dim flicker of christmas lights filled the room.

Angel, Alex had noted. Client seems to like angel analogies for this product (quote: "Make her be my Angel, and make her love it").

And they had taken this literally today.

Jared stared for a second, giving the cameraman time to slowly, carefully catch every detail of 238's flawless presentation.

She was wearing sheer white lingerie, that covered nothing yet emphasised everything. Her golden hair was curled into soft locks and crowned with a glittering halo, and small feathery wings strapped to her back over a short golden cape. Golden glitter was applied to her body as well, shimmering on her collarbone and chest.

She smiled at Jared, flirtatious and confident, curving her body in just the right ways for the camera to catch her.

She didn't kneel, though, to his slight dismay. It made sense for the order, of course. A luxury pet. For a demanding client.

Jared was a stranger to her - and she wouldn't kneel for just anyone.

"Well, good day, 002238," Jared said. There wasn't a script for her. Trainees didn't need to be told to act. Their entire being was a performance, and he expected her to excel at it. "You're special, aren't you? A very precious, very special pet for a very special owner." He reached out to clip a golden leash to the soft golden leather collar around her neck. (Prospective: "She will look better in a leash.")

"Of course I am," she whispered, and Jared was struck by the perfect counterpoints of the almost confident smile tugging at her lip and her gaze devoutly cast down. "I'm special for you, and I will be perfect for my owner."

Jared felt the pinpricks of an urge to discipline her, make her perfect for himself. It was part of her configuration of course, just like the part about not kneeling. A slight air of arrogance, but always submissive to her owner - and only him. Showing off her master's luxury.

Nguyen had outdone himself.

"You will be," Jared assured her, lifting her chin towards him. Glitter was smeared over her cheeks, too, sparkling between her freckles. "You're a beautiful product. Why don't you smile at the camera, tell your owner yourself? Season's greetings."

A soft blush blossomed on her cheeks underneath the gold, perfectly crafted, and still so natural. "He's... is he watching?"

"He is," Jared said.

Shivering, she sank to her knees. "Happy holidays, Sir," she whispered into the camera. "I can't wait to be yours."

"Why don't you show him just how much?"

"How?" She looked up at him, her dark eyes seeming even deeper among all the glitter.

"Get... Get on that table, 238." Jared didn't even try to hide the hoarse roughness tinting his voice. The product worked. It was always something else, if you hadn't trained them yourself. Even after more than two decades on the job, feeling that power over the entirety of another human was thrilling.

She got to her feet, with a grace that would seem natural to any outsider but perfectly matched that of any other WRU product, and swung herself on the edge of the table, legs dangling, upper body leaning backwards, presenting her cute breasts once more.

Jared's own trainees, back in the day, would've all been trained to be on their back already, presenting a whole different view.

This one was still keeping eye contact. Not with Jared, though. With the camera. "I hope I fullfil everything you desire." Her voice was tinted with arousal, and Jared couldn't even tell if it was fake or real. It didn't matter. Her hand ran over her body, playing with the straps tied around her, fingers idly circling her nipples.

The cameraman shifted his weight nervously, pressed his thighs together, and Jared smirked. She worked just as she should.

"Here," he mumbled, as he stepped in with the finishing decor - golden clamps, adorned with tiny bells that jingled when he fixed them to her nipples. The noise was lovely, but even more so was her sharp little gasp.

"238 isn't trained for pain," Jared said to the camera. "But she promised us, she'll take it for you."

"Anything," 238 said. "I love you, Sir. I love to be whatever you want me to be. I'm ready."

They hadn't told her to say that. Or what to do. But as any well trained Romantic should, when told to perform while none of her betters made a move, she did it on her own. She let herself sink onto her back on the padded table - finally - crossed her hands above her head and slowly, almost teasingly, opened her legs. This time, the gasp came from the camera man, staring at the diamond nestled in between her folds.

Jared bit back a chuckle. Yeah. That one was a sight.

"Good girl," he murmured, reaching for the seasonal fastenings he'd brought - a rough rope, entwined with fairy lights - and fixated her ankles to the table before he moved on to bind her hands above her head. "You'll be so good for your owner."

Still standing behind her head, he pulled a vibrator from his pocket, as golden as herself, and presented it to the camera. "Mr Barlow, here's your gift. The card we delivered to you held a small golden controller. Would you push the upper button on it?"

It took a moment, before the vibrator hummed to life in Jared's hand.

The pet shivered at the noise, already conditioned so perfectly, and a soft jingle sounded from the bells on her.

"And now press the other?"

238 back arched, and she let out a surprised cry of pain, the bells rattling.

Jared reached out and ran a caressing finger over her breast. "There's electrodes in the clamps, at your free disposal."

Jared pulled back his hand a second up late, when she seizured again, his hand thrumming with the remainder of a tiny shock. Seemed like the owner's kind of humor. Great then. He'd hopefully enjoy this whole display.

"Be good, 238," Jared whispered to her. "He's watching."

The vibrator was buzzing in his hand, wildly alive, as he slid it into her with practised ease.

She was wet already. If Jared assessed correctly, she'd stay so for a long, long while. Her owner wouldn't make this easy for her.

But then again, that was exactly what they'd made her for.

Jared waved at the camera, now mounted on a tripod. "Merry Christmas, Mr Barlow. We'll leave you to it in private now."

The cameraman swallowed, as he stepped back, wiping his palms on his pants. "You can wait in the observation room," Jared said to him, quietly enough for the camera not to catch their voices. "There's tissues, if you need them."

Jared might tune into the livestream from his office he thought. Or not. After all, he'd definitely be the one to get the privilege of being with 238 after Barlow was done. He preferred being the only one in charge.

He pulled off the Santa hat and ruffled a hand through his hair, ignoring the pet's moans behind him. As he followed the cameraman outside and raised his card to lock the door, the last thing he heard was the pet's sincere whisper.

"I love you, Sir."

#bbu fic #bbu Christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 30 days ago

Text

Jingles

New characters, but they do belong to an existing storyline. (And it seems they demand their own).

Sloane rebels against her mother.

Content - BBU, family conflicts. A bit of choking.

It was perfect. Renee considered the Christmas Tree in her living room, laden with decorations her and Cory had collected on their travels across the globe, and now tastefully arranged in a display of a homey, yet cosmopolitan bourgeoisie. Some people might use that word to discredit the better off, academic middle class, but Renee wouldn't let these enviers ruin her Christmas.

She had let the pet set up a little model railway, a cute steam engine making its rounds through artfully stacked mountains of wrapped gifts.

"Lovely," she mumbled, while her restless fingers added some finishing touches. "Amazing work, Rosa."

The pet dutifully smiled and cast her eyes down. "Thank you, Madam."

"Bradley. Don't you think that railway is lovely?"

"Mum." Her son, sprawled over the couch didn't even look up from his phone. "I'm thirteen. Not in kindergarden any more. Don't pretend you're doing any of this for us."

Renee spun around, hand on her hip. "Bradley!?"

She caught the eyeroll exchanged between her kids, her older daughter Sloane being sat on the other side of the couch table. Sloane put her own phone on the table, and sighed. "Mom, if you were actually doing something for us, Rosa would be having Christmas dinner with us."

Renee squinted at Sloane. "Rosa is the pet, darling."

"Good enough to cook dinner, but not eat it?"

Renee brushed her fingers against the soft leather of Rosa's collar. She hadn't even realized she'd reached out. And Rosa hadn't even flinched. At least the pet knew her place. "Rosa," Renee said, voice laced with authority. "Do you think you should have dinner with us?"

"Oh no, Mom. You're not playing that card. Rosa, don't answer that."

Sloane didn't get it though. Rosa spent time with the kids, she might feel like a confidant to them. But she answered to Renee, and only her.

"I shall have dinner just as you see fit, Madam," Rosa said. "It would be inappropriate to want anything else than what you wish for."

Sloane didn't look at her mother. Her gaze was on the pet's face, as if she was searching for something there. She wouldn't find it. And if she ever did, Renee would send the pet for refurbishment. She'd paid for absolute loyalty, after all.

Sloane's jaw clenched. "What about what your children wish for?"

"Oh, ho, stop it right there, Sloane! I'm doing everything for you. You're a spoilt little princess, because I worked for it, for you, your future, with everything I do!"

"Well," Sloane grimaced. "Let's be real. Rosa worked for it. All you do is exploit people who can't fight back."

Renee lifted her finger. "Upstairs, Sloane. Your room. Now."

"I hate you, Mom," Sloane said, as she turned to leave. "Just so you know. You're a despicable person. Pets are people!"

The door slammed shut behind her, little bells in the decoration jingling as if to mock them.

With a sigh Bradley stuffed his phone into his pocket and got up. "I'll go, too," he mumbled, and set out.

Rosa turned her head, obviously wanting to follow, open their doors for them or prepare their duvets, or whatever it was she constantly cleaned up for the kids.

She gasped, when she was held back by Renee's finger in the ring of her collar. "Not you, Rosa," Renee said, twisting her finger a little and guiding her hand down.

Choking for air, the pet sank to her knees in front of her owner.

Renee smirked down at her.

"You," Renee said. "Are going to tell me exactly where these ideas in my daughter's head stem from."

#bbu christmas #bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 30 days ago

Text

A Churchyard at Christmas

Masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @mirasmirages @flowersarefreetherapy @whumpinggrounds @cepheusgalaxy @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Lea spends some quality time with her long-lost older sister.

1.4k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, lady whump, amnesia, reunion, anxiety, fear of crowds, fear of losing someone, aftermath of loss, Christian church background setting, painful recovery, mentions of rape, torture and kidnapping, asshole Christian woman mention, guilt

Kayla notices when Sammy– no, Lea's– hand slips from hers.

Of course she does, how could she not? They've just entered the church, the congregation's growing, and she's not losing her baby sister again. And the first step to that, which she's already failed at, is not to lose track of her.

She looks around wildly, heart pounding, but no. No, Lea hasn't been taken, she's okay, she just– she's stopped. Eyes wide, arms tight around herself, frozen in the middle of the aisle.

Kayla motions for the rest of the family to sit down and backtracks, catching up with her sister.

"What's up, kiddo?" asks her dad, having followed. Lea looks up at him, wide-eyed.

"P-p-people," she whispers. And yes, indeed, they are getting stares and whispers, and Lea looks like she's a breath away from buckling. "Th-they'll kn-kn-know. Wh-what– th-they'll m-m-make me– I d-don't–" She hunches over, gasping for breath. "Please."

Kayla steps forward and pulls her into her arms, enveloping her. Her breaths are fast and her heartrate is rabbit-quick against Kayla's chest.

"Breathe, easy. No-one's going to make you do anything you don't want to. Follow my breathing."

It takes a while but Lea manages eventually. She pulls away and looks up, eyes shining.

"S-sorry. I sh-shouldn't do that."

"There's nothing wrong with panicking," says her dad gruffly. "Although you're safe here."

Kayla squeezes Lea's arm. "Do you want to come outside with me for a bit? It's pretty."

"I d-d-don't want to be a-a n-n-n-nuisance."

"You're not." Kayla slides a hand down her arm and takes her hand. "Come on. Dad, are you–"

"Go on. Just don't go too far without letting me know. I'll see you later."

Kayla nods and leads Lea outside. She doesn't mind leaving, not really, no matter what people might say.

They crunch their way through fallen leaves to the old wooden bench beneath Sam's memorial tree. Candlelight from the church flickers through the stained glass, tinting the frost all different colours.

Kayla sits and pats the bench beside her. "Here, sit down and eat this."

Lea hesitantly perches on the edge of the seat, taking the mince pie that some kind churchgoer had left and biting into it gingerly. After ascertaining whatever it is she was after, she digs in more eagerly. Kayla had forgotten just how much she likes them.

"Th-thank you."

"That's okay."

You have to breathe while you're eating, after all.

Kayla looks at her sister more closely.

On the face of it, she hasn't changed that much. Long, red and black braids – but she's had those long before. Knitted Christmas jumper, trench coat, soft scarf, jeans, boots, all clashing (but she still looks good, how does she do that), all covering up the extra scars. Bobble hat pulled down over her ears, mismatched clumsily-knitted gloves from Faith warming her hands imperfectly. A few stress wrinkles maybe, but they're hard to see in this light. But she... she's not the same. She's well but she looks different, like she's lost weight and then gained it back quickly (and that's probably exactly what's happened, because– well, Kayla doesn't want to think about what's happened). She's hunched into herself, hard-won confidence beaten out of her, even as Anita says she's better than she was. She looks... sad. Haunted. And as much as Kayla loves that scarf, she knows it's not just for fashion.

It aches to think about. How much her sister's been hurt. What's happened to her. How much she couldn't be there for, couldn't hold her through, couldn't wipe her tears away or even be a comfort in her memory. How much she's failed as a big sister.

But she needs to act... normal. Whatever normal is, now.

"How are you doing?"

Sammy– Lea nods. An absent nod, like it's what's expected of her. But at least she's sitting on the bench.

God. Her little sister, once so capable and strong, world-class violin player, and her goal now is to be able to sit on a bench.

But then, she still is capable and strong, isn't she? She's just... different. Traumatised, but still her sister. Ade said she found them via the Swahili on a Holst record. Her Holst record. Only Sammy would do that.

Kayla mentally chastises herself for even considering that Lea might not be as strong as she was. The thought shouldn't even have crossed her mind.

"You sure? Nothing wrong if you're not."

"T-t-too many p-people," Lea whispers. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I'd rather be out here with you. Besides, half the congregation hates me after I decked one of them." Lea frowns. "She said you disappeared for a reason, and it was all a part of God's plan. But that's stupid, it wouldn't be– God wouldn't– if he approves of rape and torture he's not a God worth worshipping."

She can't make herself believe in him anymore anyway, not like some of her family do. If he can do anything, if he cares, then why... why would he let them suffer like this? Lea has never deserved anything bad and even if she did, no-one deserves this.

Well. Maybe Finn. The fucker stole her baby sister. But it's not like she knows how to find him.

Lea looks thoughtful, like she's re-evaluating something, and... Kayla really hopes that isn't surprise on her face.

"I- I don't know– th-th-thank you?"

"S'okay."

There's a long silence. Streetlamps glitter off the frosted leaves.

"I–I don't remember Christmas being-being good. It w-w-was bad and Theo d-d-doesn't want it so I th-think it w-w-was bad then too and Anita d-d-doesn't celebrate. B-but I feel happier here."

"I'm glad. And I'm glad you had Theo. And you have Anita, and Indira, and your friends at the safehouse." Especially Theo though. As happy as Kayla is to have Sam– Lea back, which would never have happened without Anita, from what she can gather, Theo and Lea looked after each other for years. Kayla will never stop being grateful to Theo for doing what she couldn't. For being where she was unable to be.

Would it have been different, had she searched longer? Had she ignored the police verdict, like Ade? Or would she have been taken too?

"Maybe... maybe you could bring them to visit us sometime? I know Theo doesn't like Christmas and Anita doesn't celebrate, but some other time?"

"Y-you want to m-m-meet them?"

"Of course I do, they're your friends. Don't you remember when you first got to know Ade and–"

Kayla stops dead. Lea doesn't remember. Of course she doesn't, that's the point, she's had her memory wiped twice. She doesn't even remember how much Kayla loves her.

Lea's face falls. "I wish I remembered," she whispers. "Y-y-you're my f-family. But I d-don't. I'm s-s-sorry."

"Don't. You have nothing to apologise for."

Lea's shoulders shake, and Kayla takes them both carefully, pulling her into her arms. Lea buries her head in Kayla's shoulder.

Kayla doesn't say a thing as her baby sister cries. She hasn't been in this position in a decade, but it's so familiar, and it makes her heart ache. The streetlamps blur in front of her eyes.

Behind them, out of the crack in the church doors, music begins to swell.

"Silent night. Holy night."

The voice is small, wobbling, coming from Kayla's shoulder. Kayla squeezes her sister, a thick lump forming in her throat and a kernel of hope in her chest that she tries to stamp on. Probably not. That's probably not it. It's probably just her first owners.

But Anita doesn't celebrate Christmas. And Sammy spent 20 years singing this song. Maybe... maybe...

Kayla kisses Lea's forehead. She hopes with all her heart that that's where she remembers it from.

"Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace."

Kayla hums the end of the verse along with her sister, and then just listens as she sings the rest of it, seemingly lost to the world. The world is quiet. Lea's calm.

Then the song ends. The spell breaks. Lea sobs.

"I j-j-just wish I c-could remember."

Kayla squeezes her baby sister. She does, too.

"You're here. That's the most important thing. I wish we could get your memory back, but you're here now, and that's what matters most." She has her back. Nothing in the world could ever be so important.

Nothing.

#bbu fic #bbu christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

Text

A Safehouse Christmas Morning

The rescuees woke on Christmas morning to the smell of coffee and something baking. The smells themselves weren't unusual, but the timing was- Angie and Tim didn't usually get up so much earlier that they had a fancy breakfast started. Up in their room, the rescuees lay in bed, letting their bodies adjust to wakefulness and waiting for the day to start.

The first hour was often the most difficult- their medications invariably wore off in the night and they were all on a least a regular dose of mild painkillers. Besides that, Nathan had declared early on that he was not a morning person and Mikey was beginning to think he might not be either, though he was still pleased that he got to have a normal enough schedule to learn things like that. So they would stay in bed until Angie and Tim came in to help them with medication and glasses of water and trips to the bathroom and getting dressed.

After that, it was time to go downstairs. Nathan and Mikey would get themselves to the main floor and Tim would help Francis to his usual spot on the couch. Angie would make breakfast and they would eat while they talked through any household plans for that morning.

But Christmas morning was different, starting with the smell of coffee and breakfast.

"That smells amazing," Nathan said, stretching. "Angie must have done something special for Christmas." He rummaged in a stack of miscellaneous items next to the bed and fished out the letters they had written the previous day. "Better not forget these."

Francis smiled and said, "In previous years, Francis was in charge of a Christmas breakfast. He is very pleased to have it provided by someone else."

Then Angie and Tim arrived and the morning routine was the same as every other day... until they got to the family room.

They had been expecting the Christmas tree, which had been up for weeks now, but everything else was a surprise. Mikey, who was first to the doorway, stopped and stared, his jaw hanging open in wonder. Nathan nearly ran into him and stopped just in time to shuffle sideways and look around Mikey.

"Holy shit," he exclaimed. "Francis, check this out- I think Santa Claus came!"

When Tim helped him over, Francis gaped and the three rescuees stood in the doorway so long that Angie started laughing and slipped past Nathan to guide Mikey through so that the rest of them could enter.

They sat in their usual places, but couldn't stop staring. There were stockings hung by the chimney, just like in the poem. There was a warm fire already lit and the tree's lights were on and...

Francis' eyes shone as he took in what was under the tree. There were gifts, literally piles of them. It was exactly like in the movies. It was magical.

"Did you do all this?" Nathan asked, looking at Tim and Angie in amazement.

"Sort of, but not really," Tim said. "We got you each something, but most of it came from... friends."

"They left a card," Angie explained. She opened it up and read:

"Dear House 17, We heard this was your first Christmas and we wanted to make it very special! We hope you like these gifts and that they bring you joy all year long. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from your friends, C.G., P.W., M.T., and E.P."

"Breakfast first or gifts first?" Tim asked. Mikey's stomach rumbled and he and Tim exchanged a grin. "Maybe breakfast, then."

"We'll bring it in and we can do both," Angie suggested. "Here, we'll hand you your stockings and you can start there." She and Tim got the stockings off of the hooks over the fireplace and passed them around, then retired to the kitchen.

Francis held his stocking, stroking the soft fur it was covered in. It was so lovely he almost didn't care what was inside. There was a smooth shape on it, set into the white cuff, and Francis traced it with his finger.

"That's your first initial on the front," Nathan said. "F for Francis, M for Mikey, N for Nathan." He picked his own stocking up by the toe and poured it out onto his lap. "Mikey, you want a hand?"

Mikey shook his head and concentrated instead on pinching the toe of his stocking and tipping it over, emptying it himself. Francis, feeling that he didn't want to be left out, finally reached inside to see what his held.

They were substantially the same, which did not make them any less wonderful. Each stocking held a pair of socks, a bottle of some kind of lotion, a toothbrush, and piles of candy. Nathan immediately unwrapped a chocolate and popped it into his mouth, then turned and unwrapped some chocolates for Mikey, who nodded thanks and ate one.

Francis moved a little more slowly, unwrapping a single piece, very carefully and slowly, savoring the chocolate. Then he looked at the socks and began to laugh. They were printed with cartoon pictures of the characters from his favorite show, the one about the clever pet who lived with the vampires. They were perfect and he couldn't wait to wear them.

By then, Tim and Angie were back with the breakfast and they ate quickly, anxious to get to the presents.

"I'll bring them around to everyone," Tim said, and began making little piles where everyone could reach their own. "Hey," he said after a moment, clearly surprised. "Some of these are for us!"

"No kidding?" Angie was clearly very pleased. "That's so nice of them! I wasn't expecting anything!"

"Yeah, that's really sweet!" Tim crossed the room a few more times and then said, "Ooh, this one is for the whole house. And there's the special one in the front hall." He gave Angie a meaningful look. She just grinned at Francis and wiggled her eyebrows.

"That one's for you. I think you'll like it."

Mikey went first and opened a box that contained more chocolates. He pumped his right arm up and down in a gesture that clearly signified how excited he was- since coming indoors, he had discovered a terrible sweet tooth. He held the box out to Angie with a pleading look and she laughed and opened it for him. Three chocolates were gone almost instantly.

"Francis, you go next," Nathan said, and Francis blushed deeply and examined his presents for a moment before selecting one. It was a medium, rectangular package and a smile dawned across his face when he opened it. Inside was a pair of slippers in a powder pink color. They were large and soft and he examined the material with obvious pleasure before bending over to slide them on his feet over the bandages. As Nathan began unwrapping a present, Francis kept looking down at his feet, admiring the slippers.

Nathan's present was a notebook and a pen- the notebook was a slender green volume with a strap to hold it closed and the pen was nicer than any he had ever used. It was a real ink pen, not a cheap ballpoint, and the grip molded to his fingers as if it was made for him.

Next, Tim and Angie opened a gift that was labeled for both of them and high-fived when they saw what was in the envelope. It was a gift certificate to a spa, which they explained to the rescuees was a place you went to relax.

"Not that we're not relaxed here," Tim said, only lying a little bit, "but it's supposed to be extra relaxing. Luxurious." Francis remembered his Master talking about such places, and Nathan seemed familiar with the concept, but Mikey looked as if he didn't fully understand what that would consist of.

His confusion was quickly forgotten, though, as Mikey's turn had come around again. This time, with Angie holding one side of the wrapping, he tore the paper off to find a soft pillow in a semi-circular shape. He looked pleased but slightly baffled until Angie showed him how that it was meant to go behind his neck. Once it was in place, Mikey made a snuggling motion and wriggled happily into the couch.

After another brief search to decide which present to open, Francis carefully removed the paper from a journal, not unlike Nathan's, except that Nathan's had lines and his was blank.

"Yours looks like it's for drawing," Tim said. "That could be fun!" There was a set of colored pencils, too, and Francis surprised himself by looking forward to drawing with them. He had never drawn anything before, that he could remember.

Then Nathan opened a large and fairly heavy gift to find a set of books. He had a strange look on his face, as if he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or frightened.

"I'm not really a great reader," he confessed. "But... I dunno, these look fun." He was examining the cover, which was very pretty, and flipped the book open to read the inside cover. "A modern epic," he read, very slowly, stumbling over the words. "Masterpiece." He paused and read silently, and then smiled. "I bet it's great," he said. "And it'll be good practice."

"Definitely," Angie agreed. "My brother recommended that- he said it was a great read and then he liked the movies, too."

"We'll have to watch them when I finish the books," Nathan said, sounding excited to start.

"Yeah, definitely." Angie was already picking up her next present, this one a simple envelope. She shook it, as if an envelope would make noise and laughed. "My dad does that every year," she explained. "He always gets books and he always shakes them like there's going to be a lot of little parts inside." When she opened the envelope, though, she cheered. "It's a Crunchyroll subscription," she told Tim. "A streaming service," she added, for the benefit of the rescuees. "They do anime."

"Nice," said Tim, who sounded less excited about whatever Crunchyroll was. He was busy opening a gift that made him look just as excited as Angie had. "It's a recipe book," he said. "And it's Agatha Christie themed! I love her books, this'll be so fun to cook from!"

"Nice," Angie echoed him, and he shook his head at her good-naturedly. "Okay, back to Mikey."

The next present was a blue box and the giver had clearly put some thought into who the gift was for, because they had created a pull tab in the wrapping that let him open it himself. He peered into the box, delighted but slightly confused, and then Angie reached in and removed the contents.

Mikey shook moved his right hand back and forth in his version of the sign "What?"

"It's headphones!" Angie told him. "Ever used headphones before?" He shook his head. "You're gonna love this." She went back into the box for a card and then grinned. "And they sent you a subscription so you can download audiobooks! Like when I read aloud, but the voice is recorded and you can play it through your headphones. Like this," she added when he still looked confused. She pulled out her phone, pushed some buttons to connect the device, and put the headphones over Mikey's ears.

The song she chose was "The First Noel" and Mikey closed his eyes, swaying slightly in time to the music that the rest of them couldn't hear. He was imagining his waltz.

When the song ended, his eyes were very bright and his smile stretched from ear to ear.

"It's gonna be hard to top that," Nathan said, looking thrilled for Mikey.

"Maybe let's open this one for the house?" Tim suggested, as if he might know what it was. He certainly looked very excited. "And there's a gift to go with it for Nathan and Francis- oh! And one for me." He smiled, pleased at the unexpected gift.

Because Francis was next in line to open a present, he was the one to tear open the paper. Nathan knew immediately what he was looking at and cheered, but it had to be explained to Francis and Mikey. It was a game console and the individually-wrapped smaller presents were games. Francis had something called "Life is Strange", which was an adventure game. Nathan got "Baldur's Gate 3" and "Stardew Valley".

"I've played Stardew Valley," Angie said. "It's nice and low-key. You'll like it."

"And I've played Baldur's Gate," Tim added. "It's an adventure thing, with a fantasy theme. You'll like that one, too. Francis," he added, "Yours is a storytelling game. I'm gonna want to watch you play, if that's okay."

"Sir may do as he desires," Francis said, almost automatically, and Tim shook his head.

"Not like that- not to supervise you. It just looks like a cool story."

"Oh," Francis replied, sounding pleased. "Sir is-" he fumbled over the unusual social interaction. "Sir is welcome, of course." He blushed, unused to being the one to give permission.

"And I got Tetris," Tim added. "It's not, like, a story or anything, but it's kind of additive. It's a puzzle. We'll all try it out."

"No game for Mikey or me," Angie observed. "Which makes sense- Mikey can't exactly hold the controller yet and I'm not really a video games kind of person. But these are for us," she added, picking up two boxes. She set one on Mikey's lap and opened the other herself.

"Mmmm," she said when the top opened. "I'm going to enjoy that." She lifted out the contents, a flowery bag with what looked like round objects inside it. "They're bath bombs- you put them in a bath and they make it smell nice. One of those and a good book..." She set the bag aside and turned to the next box.

"Mikey, see if you can get the top off. If you can't, I'll help you." But this one, too, had a pull tab and Mikey opened it for himself. His face shone as he reached carefully inside it. Then he looked up to Angie and indicated that he wanted her to remove the contents so the others could see.

"It's a garden!" she exclaimed. She lifted out a small, plump succulent in a pot. "Mikey, these are lovely!" She set the succulent in its little clay pot down on Mikey's table, where it was joined by a second succulent land three other plants, also in small pots. One was mint, another lavender, and Mikey leaned forward to smell them, closing his eyes as he did so, savoring the fresh tang of the mint and the soft warmth of the lavender. The next was a cactus, which he pushed over next to the succulents. He nodded, pleased with his little garden.

"We'll have to find those a permanent spot," Tim said. "A nice sunny spot. You can pick one- or a couple of them, if you'd rather." Mikey blushed at the idea of making a choice, but he gave the room a considering look, nonetheless.

They were no longer sticking to a particular order by that point and Tim went next. There was a compact package wrapped in blue paper with shiny silver and gold stars and he carefully ripped each piece of tape before drawing forth a book. "Awesome!" he said, flipping it over to read the back. "Three Bags Full: A Sheep Detective Story," he read. Then he paused as he skimmed the summary and started to laugh. "The detectives are the sheep! Oh, my god, I'm going to love this." He actually opened it to the first page and would have started reading right then and there if Angie hadn't said,

"I think Nathan's got one more."

He did; it was wrapped in glossy red paper with a shiny green bow adorning the top. Nathan undid the bow very carefully and then ripped down the middle of the red paper to reveal another book. "Dragons of Stormwreck Isle," he read aloud, slowly, examining the cover. Then, as any reader does with a new book, he flipped it open.

To his surprise, it didn't look like an ordinary novel. It had pictures and charts and lists. "What is this?" he asked.

"Do you know what Dungeons and Dragons is?" Angie asked, and Nathan shook his head. "You're gonna love it. It's an interactive game- you all make up characters and one person writes a story and you play it out together."

"Interesting," Nathan said. And he thought it would be- it could be fun to have something to do together. The more he healed, the more he wanted to do more than watch television and stay on the couch.

"Okay, ready?" Tim said to Angie, which was a very odd thing to say.

"I think so. If you are."

"Yup, this is the last one." Tim looked around and said, "Francis, we have one more gift for you. Don't anybody go anywhere," he joked as he went to the front hall.

He returned just a moment later carrying a wicker basket with a huge, red, silky bow tied around it. When he set the basket gently down next to Francis, the basket moved and a soft squeaking noise came from inside.

Francis looked up with a confused expression, but Tim just grinned. "Open it up!" he said.

Francis' hands were shaking just a little as he undid the bow. He opened the lid of the basket and his mouth actually dropped open.

"For- for Francis?" he asked, in an awed voice.

"Of course it is!" Angie said, looking like she was going to burst.

Francis reached inside the basket and drew out a small, grey kitten with a red bow for a collar. It's feet and muzzle where white and its eyes were green and when Francis held it cupped in his hand, it nuzzled his wrist.

It was as if the rest of them had faded away- all Francis could see was the kitten. He brought her close to his face and she rubbed along his jaw. Then she curled up against his chest, yawned, and rolled up into a ball to fall asleep. Francis stroked her fur, watching her with immediate love and total devotion.

"You'll have to think about a name for her," Angie said.

"Noelle," Francis said immediately. "You said that means Christmas, and she's a Christmas cat." Then something occurred to him. "Is it a girl cat?" he asked. "Or a boy cat?"

"She's a girl," Tim said. "She came from the Humane Society shelter- she was living there until she found a home."

"Like Francis," said Francis, so softly they barely heard him. Anyway, he was talking to the cat.

"Well," Angie sighed happily, sitting back in her chair, "I think that's it."

"Not quite," said Nathan. "We have something for you, too." He was gratified to find that Tim and Angie looked genuinely surprised. Nathan pulled out the letters that had been hidden in the pocket of his robe and handed them over, two for Tim and two for Angie.

"When did you do this?" Tim asked and Angie added, "How did you do this?"

"We did it yesterday, when you were both out," Nathan explained. "I took dictation for Francis."

Angie opened the letters and read them, silently.

"Dear Angie," Nathan's letter began. "Thank you so much for being here with us. When I was shipped out of the shelter, I had no idea what kind of home I was going to. I assumed I would be abused again and used up until there was nothing left to use. Instead, I came to you. I'm grateful for the time you spend taking care of us and for the comfortable home you've made to help us heal. Most of all, I'm grateful that you're my friend. Yours, Nathan

His letter to Tim was along a similar theme:

Dear Tim, The moment you told me I was in a Safehouse, everything changed for me. My life hasn't been great, but being here with all of you is turning out to be the best part of it. Thank you for taking us in and doing everything you do to look after us. Our lives wouldn't be the same without you. Yours, Nathan

The letters from Francis were equally short and sweet.

Dear Ma'am, Francis is happy to be here and living with you. Francis has enjoyed this Christmas season more than any other, because you have made it so much fun. Francis looks forward to a happy New Year with you. Francis

Dear Sir, Francis thanks you for all that you do. You are kind and friendly and you make Francis feel at home. Francis has never had a happy Christmas until this year. Thank you. Francis

When they finished reading, Tim had tears in his eyes and Angie was looking at them like she wanted to hug them.

Before she had a chance, though, Mikey leaned forward and stood, very carefully. He gestured at Angie to stand as well and went over to her, held out his right arm, and pulled her into a hug. After a surprised second, Angie wrapped her arms around him and held him tight for a long moment.

When she had let go, Mikey went to Tim, who already had his arms out. They could see Tim's shoulders shaking with happy tears as he and Mikey hugged- this time, not as caregiver and rescuee, but as friends.

"Well," Tim said afterwards, wiping his eyes, "It doesn't get any better than that. Merry Christmas, everyone!"

Note: The note is signed with (sort of) the initials of usernames of Safehouse readers who had gift suggestions! Thank you for those, they were awesome and much more fun than anything I would have come up with alone.

All other details are borrowed from my own home on Christmas morning.

Tag list:

@pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds

@honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000

@whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

@maracujatangerine @lordcatwich

#bbu fic #bbu christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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94. The butler didn’t do it - part 3

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation

The day was just breaking. Large, airy snowflakes meandered downwards from the overcast morning sky. Two crows cawed to each other as they dove to land in the naked crown of a huge birch.

The only other thing moving through the white winter landscape was a carriage drawn by two beautiful bay horses.

The carriage halted next to the long driveway to the manor, and a young man jumped down. A dark-haired man leaned out and handed over a worn, brown leather satchel. They spoke briefly to each other, their breath steaming in the cold air. Then, the carriage continued down the main road. The young man turned and trudged through the snow towards the manor. The black leather collar around his neck revealing his pet status.

The house was magnificent, painted yellow and roofed with grey shingles, set like a topaz in the silvery snow. There were two wings, stretching out on either side of the main house, and several outhouses, including a stable.

The pet walked past a lawn with some sheafs of oats tied with red ribbons. A few sparrows flew busily to and fro, enjoying the bounty.

On the main door hung a huge wreath made of spruce and ivy, decorated with sprigs of holly, and tied round with red ribbons. The ornate brass door knocker was freezing when the pet grasped it. When the pet knocked, the sound rang out in the cold.

Only a short time passed until steps were heard on the other side. A girl, maybe fifteen years old, opened the door. She wore a checkered dress in shades of warm brown, a white apron and a white scarf over her auburn hair. She was obviously prepared to curtsy, but halted her movement abruptly when she caught sight of the pet’s collar. She nodded instead, not unfriendly.

”Butler Greystokes is waiting for you. Follow me.”

When she led him into a parlour, the pet was astonished to see the two men sitting there together, having tea in apparent companionship. The one was the butler, dressed neatly in a black cutaway coat, black vest, white shirt and a sage green bow tie. Above the bow tie, higher up on his neck, sat the telltale sign. The butler also wore a collar. It was an elegant thing made of soft, grey leather, but the mark of a pet all the same.

The man sitting next to him was no pet. He wore rough clothes in hunter’s green.

“Ah, the new pet is here. Thank you, Kate.”

The maid did curtsy to him, before leaving.

Making a decision, the pet stepped forward and knelt gracefully in front of butler Greystokes, humbly lowering his head.

“I am Tar, sent here by my owner to help with preparations. I am at your service.”

“Welcome. Let me have a look at you.”

The butler grabbed the pet’s chin and turned his head towards the light.

”He is pretty enough, and graceful too. He can wait at table. That’ll be a good addition to the serving staff.” The butler remarked to the other man. “Do you know how to do that, boy?” He barked the last like an order.

”I have not done it before, Sir. But I can learn.” The pet replied, his eyes respectfully downcast.

”He can probably warm a few beds too, while he’s at it.” The huntsman laughed. ”Pretty face like that, the ladies will eat it up. Some of the men too, for that matter.”

The butler released the pet’s chin. The pet caught a quick glimpse of revulsion passing over his face, but when he turned to the huntsman, his face was neutral once more.

”Alas no, Williams.” He told the other, smoothly. ”I have already received instructions that he shouldn’t be used for anything like that. The grand lady’s nephew Rhys is apparently a jealous owner, and wants to keep his toys to himself.”

”Too bad, but I might feel the same if I was the owner.”

The butler shrugged. ”Master Rhys has apparently recently acquired him. He chose to send him ahead to help out with all the preparations. Nice of him, since it will be a rush all right.”

The huntsman nodded.

”Talking about rush, I’d better go ahead and take the dogs out. Thanks for the tea.”

He drained his cup and, leaving it on the table, walked out with a nod to Greystokes.

”Come, boy.” The butler told the pet. “I’ll show you to the kitchen.”

The courtyard was still quiet, only their footsteps written in the new snow. A garland of red-ribboned holly hung above the heavy oak door to the kitchens. When Greystokes opened the door, firelight and the scent of baking bread spilled out to meet them.

“Here’s Tar, Master Rhys’ new pet. He is sent to help us out ahead of the holidays. He’ll help in the kitchen and wait at table. Please look after him and make him welcome.”

Five pairs of eyes fixed on the pet.

Lydia had written with blue ink in the margin, but then afterwards crossed out the text with repeated lines.

Ask Cory about how pets act and feel when they meet other pets. How will he be received by the others?

Merry Christmas, everyone! I hope you have really lovely holidays with time for both rest and fun adventures. 🎄❤️🎄❤️🎄❤️🎄

This is the continuation of The Butler didn’t do it that absolutely no one @the-monarch-whumperfly asked for. 😄 This is a chapter of Lydia’s work in progress that happens before the events in the first part and the second part.

Lydia & Coriander chronological order:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Chronological order in Lydia’s book:

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

@cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

#bbu fic #bbu christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Laundry Room

At Rosa's first Christmas at her owners' house, she and Blanca are alone together.

A prequel to Pet Safety.

Content : BBU, implied conditioning, nudity, self-harm (due to conditioning), burns. Caretaking. Falling in love. F/f romance. Kissing.

Rosa's Sir and Madam spend Christmas with Madam's family in their beach house. Pets aren't allowed, Madam said with a frown directed at Blanca. Since "the incident". The term makes Blanca's neck stiffen, Madam's jaw clench, and Sir roll his eyes. And Rosa? She doesn't know. Is not included in the dynamics that work under the surface.

It makes sense in a way, that the Romantic has intimate knowledge that the Domestic doesn't, Rosa tells herself. Blanca is special. Rosa isn't.

Rosa knows how to cook all the meals her owners like, how to set the table, clean the glasses, arrange the clothes, make the beds. She's a good pet. That's all she needs. All she ever wanted. All that a pet is meant to be.

So good, that it even confused her, when Master Cory took one of the boxes of food carefully prepared by Rosa in days and nights of work out of the trunk and sneaked it back to Blanca. "For the holiday. Don't forget me, beautiful. Merry Christmas," he'd whispered into her hair, and Blanca had smiled at him so wide that the aberrant feelings hit Rosa right in the gut.

Nobody had spared a glance at her.

It's an aberrant feeling, being left out. Domestics don't feel lonely, they don't feel sad, they don't feel jealous, they don't feel sorry. They don't have friends. They function. That's all they do.

And Rosa affirms herself that she does. She's a good and functioning Domestic.

As such, she's walked down into the basement right after her owners have left, pulling the doors close behind her. She doesn't need to see Blanca smile as she wave past the car. There's a place for Blanca, and there's a place for Rosa, and they do not overlap.

Rosa is still ironing clothes in the utility room a whilr later, when Blanca strolls in. There's an easy sway to Blanca's hips, an elegance to her movements that seems unfitting for an environment like the packed, practical laundry room that smells like labor and detergent.

She's still naked, like Madam insists for her to be in the house, but even though Rosa understands it's meant to be a reminder of her lowly position, Blanca seems more regal than anyone else Rosa had ever seen.

She swallows. She isn't supposed to think that. She isn't supposed to look at Blanca's body, at her soft skin, at the beautiful curves of her hips and breasts - or at least she isn't meant to see it as anything else as a surface that is meant to be kept clean, just as are all her owners' other possessions.

Rosa focuses on the sheet in front of her, scanning it's pristine white for any creases to distract herself from any aberrant thoughts.

"You shouldn't be here," she says briskly.

Undeterred, Blanca leans in over the laundry hamper, her body a perfect curve, as she fishes for one of Master Cory's shirts. Rosa fixates her gaze on her own hand around the iron.

From the corner of her eyes, she sees Blanca bury her face in the shirt, take in their owner's smell.

"Why?" Blanca asked.

Rosa blinks. "Why what?"

"Why aren't I supposed to be here?"

"You're not a Domestic."

"True. I'm a Romantic. I'm supposed to be with my Master." She slips into the shirt, wraps it closely around her and shakes her hair free over the collar. "He's not here. He doesn't want me with him. So where am I supposed to be now?" There's a sadness clinging to her voice that almost stings in Rosa's heart. It doesn't. It mustn't. She has to keep things in order.

"Madam doesn't want you dressed in the house."

Blanca shrugs and pulls herself up to sit on the washing machine, crosses her long, smooth legs. Rosa feels dizzy. "And Sir likes it when I wear his clothes."

"Sir left," Rosa says, sharper than intended. Blanca shouldn't be here. They shouldn't be talking. It makes Rosa slower, less focused. It makes her a bad pet.

"So did Madam. It's just us." Blanca shrugs, leans forward, pauses, as if waiting for Rosa to meet her gaze.

Unwillingly, Rosa puts the iron down and does.

Blanca's eyes are grey. Sometimes the grey is light and shimmering, chrome and steel. Today, they're dark. Like a storm, Rosa thinks. A storm that carries away anything in its path.

"So the question should be: How would you like me, Rosa?"

On my face. The thought shoots through her, bright and short and sharp and cruel, like a lightning bolt.

Pain follows instantly. Punishment. A scream. Hers? Blanca's? Both?

The world turns black.

When she comes to, she's laying on the ground, bedded on crumpled laundry. Everything is cold. Her entire left sidethrobs with heavy pain, radiating from her forearm. Blanca's fingers run over it, slick with some sort of paste, carefully coating bright red blisters shaped like an iron, surrounding spots of white and black. Rosa's stomach lurches.

Bad pet, she thinks. Bad pets deserve punishment.

"Please," she whispers. "I'm bad."

"I cooled the wound for fifteen minutes," Blanca says. "You were unconscious. I called Sir. He says you'll be fine."

"Bad," Rosa whispers. "I was bad. I was... Madam will -"

"Sir won't tell her."

"Sir won't-" Rosa stares at Blanca. Her grey eyes are narrow in concentration, as she gently rubs in the salve. Spears of pain drill into Rosa's body. She doesn't flinch. "Why?"

"I begged him." Blanca's lips twist. "He likes that. I made him come over the phone."

"But I was -"

"I told him it was an accident. That I don't want Madam to hurt you for it." She smiles down at Rosa. "That if it needs to be, he can hurt me instead. It's okay. He's not cruel."

Rosa swallows. Master Cory is cruel. But they both know what Blanca meant. Madam is more cruel. So much more. "I deserve it." Rosa shivers. "I was a bad pet."

"I lied to Sir. It wasn't an accident." Blanca reaches for the bright orange first aid kit next to her. Her hair tingles on Rosa's skin. "You burned yourself. Why?"

Rosa clenches her jaw, refusing to answer the question. Focus on the pain. Not on the flutter in her stomach. "You can't lie to Sir."

"I can." Blanca smirks, as she places a bandage over the burn and begins to wrap in in place with gauze. "I love him. I belong to him. I'm made for him. But you know, I lie to him all the time."

Rosa winces the tiniest bit, when Blanca knots the ends of the bandage. "Pets can't -"

"I tell him that I like his wife. That I like his friends. I tell him that every fuck is great, even the ones in his car. I tell him that I don't mind pain." She bites her lip. "I tell him that he's the only one I could ever love."

"But..." Rosa's throat is dry. "That's not a lie, right? Pets can't -"

Blanca leans in. She's not fidgeting for the first aid kit this time, Rosa realizes. She's leaning over Rosa, one leg nestled between hers. The white shirt is falling open from her shoulders, her beautiful breasts in front of Rosa, her hair on Rosa's neck, her breath hot on her skin.

"I can," Blanca whispers. "And I think you can, too."

Rosa's lips part, as her good hand reaches up into Blanca's hair.

Bad pet, a soft voice echoes somewhere in her mind. But then her fingers curl up in Blanca's soft hair and all voices and all pain are swept away by the storm that erupts when Blanca's lips meet hers.

#bbu fic #bbu christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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93. Firelight

CW: institutional slavery, pet whump, dehumanisation, box boy universe

The snow glittered in the moonlight. It lay undisturbed and soft like a feather down duvet all over the lawn, the trees, and the roofs of the other houses. Brutus looked despondently out the window, then paced across the room and looked out at the same view from a slightly different angle.

Master and Mistress had just left the house in a haze of sparkly red dress, fine, dark grey suit, fragrant perfume and red-bottomed heels clattering against the wooden floors.

”Down, boy! I won’t need you tonight.” Master had told him. ”This is the sort of party that will have their own security.” He’d added, with a smiling glance at Mistress Cecilia, who was adjusting an errant strand of her up-do in the floor-length hall mirror.

And then they were gone…

And Brutus worried. As usual.

The guard dog tried to convince himself that his Master knew what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop himself from restlessly wandering from room to room in the huge apartment.

As he was staring out yet another window, multicoloured lights from the Christmas tree falling over his face, Absalom silent-footedly appeared next to his elbow.

Today, the romantic wore a white shirt, marine trousers and a bow-tie in midnight-blue silk. A sapphire mounted in silver spilled down from his collar, catching the light in undersea reflections.

“Make a fire.” He said.

Brutus started at the unexpected request.

”But… But Master and Mistress just left. Did they really ask for a fire?”

Absalom stared out the window, then slowly turned his head to look at Brutus. Blue eyes meeting dark brown. Smooth, glossy brown hair like a waterfall framing his pale face.

”Make a fire for me.” Absalom clarified. His facial expression neutral, his voice toneless, but there was something in his eyes that hinted of this being a very heartfelt desire indeed.

Brutus was going to refuse. To tell the pet that he could do it himself, if he wanted to risk their owners’ anger. True, they had not forbidden the pets from making a fire, but they had never told them to do so either. It was hardly worth the risk, the room was warm enough already. But that hint of something stopped him.

Instead, Brutus gave a curt nod and turned to kneel in front of the fireplace. It was the guard dog’s task to make sure the firewood rack was filled, and he did it diligently.

The wood was dry, Brutus had already prepared smaller pieces of wood and strips of bitch bark in a basket next to the rack. It was quick work to build a neat staple of pieces of wood, with the kindling and bark in the centre. He could not deny a small sense of satisfaction as he lit the match and watched the yellow and orange flames eagerly catch in the firewood. Brutus carefully fed some smaller pieces of wood to the fire, guarding its progress. When he was satisfied the fire was well established, he tidied up the leftover kindling and put the matches back on their designated place.

Just as the guard dog got to his feet, Absalom came in through the door. He carried a silver tray, his back as straight and his movements as elegant as if he was serving their owners. On the tray was two thick glass cups filled with steaming wine that gleamed a deep ruby red in the firelight. There was also a plate with gingerbread cookies decorated with white icing in shapes of hearts and snowflakes.

With a flourish, Absalom held out the tray to Brutus. The large man just stared at him quizzically.

”Don’t worry, darling.” Absalom said. ”There are lots of leftovers from their get-together on Wednesday. They will never know.”

Brutus still hesitated. Their eyes met. Absalom smiled, just a little. Brutus nervously pulled a hand through his black hair, but finally took the proffered cup.

The romantic gracefully sank down in front of the fireplace, placing the silver tray with the cookies on the floor. He took a drink and cradled the warm glass cup in both hands. Brutus sat down next to him and sipped his drink cautiously.

The mulled wine was warm, and sweet, and strong. The taste and scent of it filling his senses. It was rare that Brutus tasted anything like it, and for a moment, he was completely absorbed.

When he glanced over at Absalom, the other pet was looking into the flames. The orange firelight reflecting in his eyes. His face was impassive, his breathing calm, but silent tears were streaming down his cheeks.

Brutus watched him with astonishment. He’d never seen Absalom show emotion in any way like this before. The guard dog wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say. Absalom’s quick wit could scratch like cat’s claws, if he was displeased.

He couldn’t just ignore it, either.

Slowly, Brutus reached out and laid his muscular hand on the pet’s thin shoulder. Absalom stiffened. For a second, Brutus thought the romantic might whip around to hit him.

Then, Absalom raised his own hand, thin and pale in comparison, and put it on top of Brutus’ hand on his shoulder. For a moment, they sat together and just watched the fire.

Fun Facts:

To drink warm, spiced wine has a long history, even the ancient Romans and Greeks did it. There are different versions of mulled wine across the world. In the Nordic countries, we drink glögg. It is a quite sweet version of mulled wine that most often is served with almonds and raisins.

Tag List Part 1:

#bbu fic #bbu christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Collecting BBU-whump-themed Christmas pieces! Do you have any? Or recommendations of someone else's? If so - please share the links in a reblog or in the comments!

I'll collect them in this post and also reblog them on @bbu-whump-reblogs, this time allowing older pieces as well! So please, share on! 💕

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Cookies and sweaters

Finding Safety masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy

Aaliyah and Cass, along with the other rescues in Sandy's safehouse, bake cookies for the Christmas tree and get presents.

Set on their first Christmas Eve in the safehouse, a few weeks after their arrival there.

CWs: BBU, pet whump, recovery whump, implied past non-con, briefly mentioned past minor whump, past dehumanisation, past degradation, self degradation

The key turns in the lock as they're kneading the dough, and it feels like time stops in the little, too-messy kitchen.

Aaliyah freezes, heart pounding, hands holding the cookie dough. Tom, little Tom who makes her head hurt, crawls under the kitchen counter, arms around his legs. And Letitia scurries to greet whoever's entering (please let it be Mx Sandy and Cass and Xiu back from shopping, please don't let Mr Jacob have forgotten something, he's supposed to be away from here for Christmas, please, please).

"Welcome home, Mx Sandy."

"Thank you, Tish. How's the morning been?"

"Good, Mx Sandy. We started making the cookies for the tree and, and Tom's made a calendar."

"That's great, honey. Do you want to show me?"

"Yes, mx."

Aaliyah stands up straighter, dropping the dough. It's far too messy in here, she really hopes Mx Sandy doesn't punish them for it, or at least that she only punishes her, please, please. Tom and Letitia don't deserve to be punished. People never like mess, it's far too much to hope she won't be punished at all.

Mx Sandy enters the room, followed by Letitia nervously, then Cass and Xiu, both carrying bags which they set down in the corner before washing their hands.

A tiny bit of Aaliyah unclenches. It's Cass. Cass is safe. He's safe he's safe he's safe. His eyes immediately lock onto her and he limps over, standing beside her. She finds his hand and squeezes it.

"Let's have a look at this dough then," says Mx Sandy, and Aaliyah steps aside, in front of Tom's table. She has to hide him, has to get Mx Sandy to punish her, not him. He's so little.

Mx Sandy looks in the bowl. "What flavour did you use? Orange zest, right?"

"Yes, mx," says Letitia. "Is it, is it okay?"

Mx Sandy beams at them. "It's perfect. It's alright, Aaliyah, you won't be punished. Or you, Tommy, you can come out from under there if you like."

Tom crawls out and stands slightly behind Aaliyah, clutching the hem of her oversized top. "You, you promise?"

"I do. There's nothing wrong with making a mess here."

Tom nods. "I, I know. I, I'm sorry, I forgot, with, with the white rooms and the, the white walls, I, I forgot, I forget, I can't–"

Aaliyah turns and wraps the boy in her arms. He's so young, so small. An adult now, Mx Sandy thinks, but he wasn't when he came here, apparently. He makes her head hurt but she can't not comfort him.

"That's okay, honey," murmurs Mx Sandy, "we're here to remind you. Does anyone want to start rolling out the dough?"

"I will," replies Xiu softly.

"Good girl. Tom, want to show me your calendar?"

Tom nods and peels himself away from Aaliyah, wringing his hands. He has a smudge of cookie dough on his glasses, and he swipes at it as he crosses the room and picks the decorated paper plate up from the table, a mini tear-off calendar stapled underneath. He's drawn a jungle scene, of course.

"That's excellent, honey."

Tom beams. "Thank you."

"You should all choose a cutter for your cookie. Cass, Aaliyah, Xiu, have you ever made tree cookies before?"

Cass doesn't respond at all, and Aaliyah shakes her head (she's never done any baking, Master didn't buy her for that, and he wouldn't have let her touch his food anyway. She refuses to think about the bake-at-home dog biscuits she was made to prepare for Cass one time). Xiu says, "No, Sandy. I did cooking and baking for my Sir but not these."

"Okay. That's okay. I'll show you how to make them. Or Tish can, if you'd like, Tish? You're an expert by now."

Letitia looks away shyly and nods.

"Excellent. I'm going to put away the groceries."

Aaliyah frowns. Isn't that a pet's job? She can't say anything though, and she watches as Mx Sandy opens the fridge and starts piling food in out of the bags. Xie've even bought some of those stringy cheese sticks she likes so much.

Aaliyah really doesn't understand why xie're so nice.

Letitia picks up a tree-shaped cookie cutter and lays it on the flat dough. "You take the cutter and, and press it down on the dough until it goes all the way through. Then you poke a hole in the top and, and put the cookie on the tray." She demonstrates, placing the tree-shaped cookie on a greased baking tray. "See? Now you can do it."

Tom bounds forward to pick a giraffe cutter, and Letitia smiles fondly at him, stepping back so he and Xiu can make their cookies (Xiu's picked a little cat. It's cute). Cass lets go of Aaliyah's hand but doesn't move himself. Aaliyah steps forward to choose hers. Maybe if she does, Cass will follow.

There's a lot of cookie cutters on the table and Aaliyah blinks, overwhelmed by all the choice. There's so many, how can she choose? She shouldn't be choosing anyway, that's a people thing, it's for her Master to do.

But he's not here anymore.

Someone's tapping her on the hand and she turns to see Tom bobbing up and down beside her.

"You, you having trouble deciding?" Aaliyah nods. "Do, do you want some help?" She nods again, and Tom looks over the cutters thoughtfully, choosing a moon and holding it out to her. "If, if you like."

Aaliyah smiles and nods gratefully, taking it in both hands. She heads over to where Xiu is carefully pressing her cat into the dough. Xiu glances up at her.

"Do you think we're doing this right?" she asks softly.

Aaliyah hesitates and then nods. It looks like how Letitia did it anyway, so it's probably okay, right?

"Good. I wouldn't like to make a mistake. That would be bad."

Xiu's designation is, was, partly Domestic, and Aaliyah wonders if her Sir was a perfectionist, the way she's so careful with everything. Careful movements, careful chores, careful cookie cutting. Aaliyah steps up next to her and cuts her own cookie, making a hole at the top of the moon with the end of a teaspoon. She transfers it to the tray beside Tom's giraffe.

"You can cut some small ones to eat too in a minute," says Mx Sandy, passing by to put a jar of peanut butter in the cupboard. "They won't need holes. Let me check we have all the tree cookies first."

Mx Sandy crosses to the tray with a smile, ruffling Tom's hair on the way. He beams.

"We're one cookie short," says Mx Sandy after a quick count. "I know which one is yours Tom, Letitia... Xiu, Cass, Aaliyah? One of you? You don't have to make one if you don't want to, but it's a nice tradition."

"Dirty mutts don't touch things used for people food, mx," says Cass roughly, hunching his shoulders.

"You're not a dirty mutt, Cass," says Mx Sandy firmly, "and you eat food made here normally, what's the difference with these?"

"That's made for me, mx. I do not, um, dirty anything meant for people. But I might touch the dough making a cookie and dirty mutts shouldn't do that. Not if people will use it too. Begging your pardon, mx."

Mx Sandy bites xir lip. Aaliyah shuffles closer to Cass and puts her arm around him. He has to make a cookie for the tree!

"Okay. Okay, Cass, we'll work on dissuading you of the dirty mutt thing later, because you're not one but I can't see a way to persuade you of that right now. For now, just know that you're allowed to touch things. You can make yourself a cookie, Cass, that's allowed. Why don't you choose a cutter?"

Cass looks down at Aaliyah, who nods. Mx Sandy said he can make a cookie, so he should make one!

Warily, he approaches the cutters spread out on the table and looks them over. He picks out a star gingerly with two fingers and holds it up.

"That's good. Cut some smaller ones too, if you like, so we can eat them."

"You're, um, sure, mx?"

"Yes. Go on, before Tom uses all the dough."

Tom looks up from his mini jungle of cookies, turning bright red. "Oh, I'm, I'm sorry, Sandy."

"It's fine, honey. You carry on. There's still enough dough for Cass."

Cass cuts his cookie and places it on the tray, and by silent agreement the others stay back, letting Cass and Tom cut the small cookies. Once they're done, Mx Sandy puts the tray in the oven.

"And now we wait. We have some presents to give you all. They're nothing bad, all good things. I hope you'll like them. But first, shall we put some music on? Any preferences?"

Cass shifts awkwardly and glances at Aaliyah. "Please can we have, um, no Christmas songs, mx?"

Aaliyah shudders at the memory of Christmas Day fights and Christmas songs playing as Master... well. No, no Christmas songs.

"Of course. Tish isn't fond of them either."

"Carols specifically," says Letitia, folding against Mx Sandy's side. "Too long in my box under a Christmas tree."

Mx Sandy presses a kiss to her forehead and murmurs something Aaliyah can just hear.

"I'm sorry, honey."

"Was your parents, not you," Letitia mutters shakily back.

"But still, if it wasn't for me–"

"–I might have gone to someone who wasn't, wasn't as kind," finishes Letitia firmly. Mx Sandy pulls her into a proper hug.

Cass exchanges a look with Xiu and squeezes Aaliyah before stepping away, Cass pulling what Aaliyah thinks might be clothes out of a shopping bag while Xiu piles them neatly.

If they're the presents... if Cass helped choose them... maybe they're not too bad.

Mx Sandy steps away from Letitia and takes a shaky breath. "Okay. Okay, right. Thank you, Cass, Xiu. I'll put on the mixed playlist we made earlier in the year, yeah? Aaliyah, Cass, we'll add some songs you like to that soon." Xie fiddles with something on xir phone and a country song starts playing out of the speaker. "So. Presents. You can all sit down if you like, you don't need to stand around."

Aaliyah, Cass and Xiu sit down, Cass slumping over slightly with a wince. His leg must be bad if he's visibly wincing, and Aaliyah leans against him, trying to share her body heat. Letitia frowns at him and crosses to the microwave, putting a reusable heating pad in.

"You sit down too, Tish, I'll do that," says Mx Sandy, and Letitia nods, taking a seat beside Xiu. Tom leans against the side, feet tapping away.

"Is, is it okay if I don't sit, Sandy?" he asks nervously, and xie nods.

"Sure. It always is. Here you go, Cass." Xie hands Cass the heating pad wrapped in a Christmas tea towel, and he presses it to his thigh.

"Thank you, mx."

"No problem Cass. You can use them when you like, you don't have to wait."

"Yes, mx."

Aaliyah squeezes his hand. She knows he hates asking for things, hates the feeling that doing so makes him weak. Master used to laugh at him and call him a 'bad, weak mutt' when he couldn't walk properly, and she knows he's scared of that, too.

"Aaliyah, yours is on top, you okay having it first?" She nods, insides twisting with nerves, and Mx Sandy passes her a bundle of fabric. She unfolds it, grateful at least that it's not wrapped.

It's a sweater. A Christmas sweater, like she's seen some spectators at Cass' fights wear. She banishes those memories from her mind.

It's... strange. This sweater clearly isn't meant to show her off. She pulls it on and it's just... warm. Baggy, oversized, and she pulls the wool over her hands, curling into it. It's dark blue with snowflakes and a large reindeer in the middle.

She loves it. She smiles widely and bows her thanks.

"You're welcome, honey. Cass chose it."

Aaliyah turns to Cass and gives him a hug.

"That's a white-tailed deer," says Xiu suddenly, and Aaliyah turns to her as she claps a hand to her head. "I don't know where that came from, my apologies."

Aaliyah shakes her head. She doesn't mind. It's another piece of Xiu, before... before.

"It's fine," says Mx Sandy concernedly, "do you want some painkillers for your head?"

"No, thank you, Sandy."

"Okay. Do you want to tell us about the deer?"

Xiu nods. "On Aaliyah's sweater, it's a white-tailed deer, not a reindeer. Reindeer are shaggier. I don't know how I know that though."

"Because whoever you were before WRU did. Don't pressure yourself, more memories might come back if you wait." Xiu nods. "Okay, Tommy, you're next."

Tom takes his bundle of fabric and unfolds it. He makes a small sound of delight and throws it over his head, grinning.

His sweater is more of a sweatshirt, with a racoon in Christmas lights and a Santa hat, surrounded by a knit pattern.

"Thank you thank you thank you!"

"I thought a fleecy sweatshirt would be better for you," says Cass, "I know you cannot stand wool on you."

Tom beams.

The rest are all knitted. Xiu has a pattern of penguins on blue, and Mx Sandy has a green sweater that looks like a Christmas tree that makes Letitia burst into giggles. Xiu flushes proudly at the reaction. Letitia herself has a bright red knit with a llama on, and Cass has a dark blue sweater with dancing Santa Clauses on that he puts on carefully, almost disbelievingly, wrapping the wool around his hands.

"Thank you. It is the warmest thing I have had of my own in a long time." He makes a choked sound somewhere between a sob and a comment, and Aaliyah wraps her arms around him before he can make a comment about mutts not getting proper clothes – not that she knows he will, but Master used to say that a lot.

He feels soft in this jumper.

Mx Sandy smiles around at them all. "I'm glad you like your presents. And thank you so much for mine."

"You paid," objects Xiu.

"Still. It's from you and Cass." Cass smiles slightly. "D'you want to decorate your cookies now? I'll get out the writing icing and sprinkles."

"May I make white icing?" asks Xiu.

"Go ahead."

Aaliyah watches as Xiu makes white icing and Mx Sandy fetches the rest of the cookie decorations. There's different colours of writing icing and lots of sprinkles and all sorts, and she feels that twisty, nervous feeling in her chest again.

"Just decorate it how you like. There's no wrong answer."

She swallows and nods, reaching for a tube of yellow writing icing. Carefully, making sure the line doesn't wiggle too much, she outlines the edge of the cookie. Then she uses some of Xiu's white icing to stick multicoloured sprinkles down the centre. She doesn't know how she remembers how to do this, and she's not going to think about it or it'll hurt her head. She looks to Mx Sandy for approval.

"That's very good. Do you like it?" She nods. "Then I like it. Once the icing's set you can thread some of this ribbon through the hole."

Mx Sandy passes her the green ribbon and some scissors, and Aaliyah cuts a length, then runs it through the cookie, looking at Mx Sandy's one from last year as a reference as she ties the ribbon.

She looks around at everyone else. She's ahead. Is that okay? Finishing first has always been a bad thing in the past, but this isn't that, is it, so maybe, maybe it's not too bad? Cass squeezes her shoulder.

His star is more complicated than hers, with a little face in the centre, and he's struggling a little to tie the ribbon. Not being allowed to use his hands for much other than fighting for a couple of years didn't really lend itself to being able to do complicated motions easily, she supposes.

She taps him on the arm and when he looks at her, gestures, "You want help?"

"Mutts don't–" Aaliyah cuts him off with a firm swiping movement with both hands, creating a cross. No, no, not that, Master's not here, he's not a mutt. "Yes. Yes, thank you, Aaliyah."

She smiles and takes the ribbon, tying it carefully in a loop. Cass puts his arm around her.

"Happy Christmas."

Aaliyah leans against him contentedly. Yes, yes it is. It might not quite be Christmas Day yet, but for once, for the first time, this is a happy Christmas. She realises, quite suddenly, that although she was created for Master, and she was mostly okay there, she was never actually happy. Not like she is now. She tries not to feel guilty about it, because surely she should be happiest with her Master?

But she wasn't.

A tear drips down her cheek.

Where she's happiest is right here, with Cass and everyone else. Especially Cass. He– he should have more than being treated like a fighting dog, and now he does.

Master took her and Cass on a walk, once, when the truck broke down and they needed to get to and from the Christmas Day fights. Aaliyah had been holding Cass up as he limped, bleeding, and as she'd looked in the windows of the houses they'd passed, all yellow and bright and warm-looking and full of people laughing and smiling nicely, she'd wished, briefly, that she was safe and warm and loved like that. It had been wrong to think, of course, so so wrong, but...

But, now she is. Now she gets to have that. She wipes her cheek and smiles at Cass, tapping the morse code message Letitia taught them on the tabletop.

Happy Christmas.

#bbu fic #bbu Christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Home for Christmas: Going Home

Sanctuary masterlist

AMOW day 2: home for Christmas

Yeah this isn't comfort at all lol.

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @whumpymirages @flowersarefreetherapy @amonthofwhump

Finn takes 643 home for Christmas.

Set towards the end of her retraining as a Romantic.

869 words

CWs: BBU, pet whump, lady whump, dehumanisation, conditioning, nudity, noncon, ableism (very brief), creepy whumper, intimate whumper

Finn whistles as he opens the door to 643's room. He has a whole schedule he needs to follow to test her skills in the outside world, and he's very much looking forward to it.

643 slips onto her knees when she sees him enter, looking up at him from under her lashes. He strokes her hair and then puts his fingers to her mouth. 643 parts her lips, sucking delicately on his fingers for a minute before he pulls them away.

"Good girl. You're good at this, I'm sure your owner will be very happy with you."

"Thank you, sir."

"It's time to test your skills in the real world, so you're coming home with me for the holidays. And I have some proper clothes for you. Here, put these on."

He sets the clothes he's brought down beside her, not looking away as she changes into the lacy, dark red lingerie set he bought for her. She looks delicious in them and although he doesn't see her body for nearly long enough before she pulls the long, faux-fur coat over herself, that's alright. He'll have plenty of time later.

He's pleased to see that she doesn't try to hide her body from him anymore. That's good. It's nice to have her a bit shy, goes with the stutter, but she can't pull away too much.

"Good girl. Now put this on too." 643 shrugs on the orange high-vis vest with 'Pet in Training' written in black on the back. It doesn't look too good on her, but he doesn't mind. He'll take it off when they get home. And then she'll be all his for Christmas. He steps up to her and pushes her neck down, caressing her skin as he attaches her leash. She leans into his touch delightfully.

"Come on. Let's go."

643 stands smoothly and follows Finn out of the room, hands behind her back. Finn signs her out and sits her down in the passenger seat. She keeps her eyes out front, hands in her lap.

"You haven't seen the outside world much before, have you, 643?"

"No– no, sir."

"Hmm. You know, I can't decide if your owner would be better off keeping you in the bedroom or showing your beauty off in public. At least in the bedroom you couldn't make an escape attempt."

643 stiffens. "Please, sir, I– I wouldn't leave, that was– that was months ago, I wasn't trained properly, I wouldn't want to– to leave now, sir."

"Hush, it's okay, I know." He strokes the back of her neck with a smile and she leans into it, turning slightly to nuzzle into his hand. Oh, she's perfect. "I know. We're nearly there now."

When they reach 643's handler's house, 643 waits for his instructions before following him out of the car, head bowed. She's not supposed to be looking at the house without permission, and she won't.

Her heart's still hammering from the talk about escape attempts. Does her handler still think she'll try to leave? She wouldn't. She wants to be owned, she knows that now, she needs to be. She wants to be useful, to be used, it's what she was made for. Why would she leave? She wouldn't survive on her own anyway.

She follows her handler into the house, standing perfectly still as he removes her bright vest and fur coat, caressing her arm as he does so. It's cooler without it, but that's okay. She doesn't like the feel of the coat, and as a Romantic, she won't be wearing much for her owner anyway. Her handler says they'll want to show her off. He unclips her leash, too.

"This way. I need to relax for a bit before we go out later, and I have just the idea." He leads the way into the living room and sits down on the sofa, and she kneels at his feet, looking up at him attentively. She flutters her eyelashes slightly – he always likes that.

"I see you want my attention, and you'll have it, 643. But first, what do you think of the Christmas decorations?"

643 looks around. There's a fake tree in the corner decorated with lights and tinsel in the corner, and more tinsel strung up around the room. A paper star hangs from the ceiling.

The sight of the decorations brings tears to her eyes, and her head starts to hurt, although she has no idea why.

"They're very– very nice, sir."

"Hmm. We'll need to improve your compliment skills before you're sold, I think. And you need to hide those tears better. But that's okay, we have time. Take off your clothes and come up here, position 35."

643 strips and climbs onto the sofa, lying on her front and stretching her legs out, folded beneath her, her most valuable parts wide open and vulnerable. She feels a finger tease at her and as it touches a sensitive spot she lets out a soft moan.

"So reactive. Tell you what, if you behave well at the restaurant tonight I'll pleasure you properly. How's that?"

643 nods and manages a strangled, "Thank you, sir," as the handler teases her some more.

#bbu fic #bbu Christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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A Safehouse Christmas Story, pt. 1

On the first day of Christmas, My true love gave to me A partridge in a pear tree.

Temperatures dropped below freezing and Mikey's shoulder ached even more than it usually did. Mistress said that was because of the weather and that there was going to be snow, and Master agreed and made sure there was a blanket around Mikey's shoulders. It helped, at least a little.

When the snow did begin to fall, Mikey found it hard to feel warm, even in the house with blankets and central heating. He remembered too vividly how it had been to spend such nights outside in Master's garden, when he was grateful that his rounds, plodding around and around the house in all weather, kept him from freezing. The snow had been welcome then because, for reasons Mikey did not understand, it was warmer than those cold, clear nights when you could see all the way to the stars. On those nights, the cold would settle into his bones and it never quite seemed to go away in the next afternoon's sunshine.

Now, sitting on a couch with Nathan and Francis right there to keep him company, Mikey tried very hard not to think about those times. They were over, as Mistress reminded him with a sad smile when she saw that he was looking out the window and his gaze was on something far away. He tried to smile back and nod, but he couldn't help shivering.

"Are you still cold?" Mistress asked, but he shook his head. It was too complicated to explain, but it wasn't a physical kind of cold, that could be solved with a blanket or a heating pad. It was something farther down that that.

Mistress didn't look like she believed him, but she didn't press, which Mikey appreciated. All she said was, "We'll have something to take your mind off it soon enough."

The mysterious nature of the pronouncement was enough to do that, all by itself. It wasn't like Mistress to hint at things or say anything but what she meant, which was its own kind of challenging, Mikey reflected. He was used to being told things, but they were always orders. Whereas Mistress just talked about whatever was on her mind, often to him, when he went into the kitchen with her and kept her company while she cooked. He never knew how to react, but she hadn't gotten upset with him for that, so perhaps she didn't mind.

Mikey's mind wandered off, in the same high-speed muddle it had been in all day, since he had started feeling that strange cold and remembering last winter with a crueler Master. He was so deep in the recesses of his mind that it took him a moment to realize that the cold was physical all of a sudden. The door was open and, from the way he could feel the air coming in from outdoors, was staying that way.

"Angie?" came Master's voice from the door. "Can you help me?"

Mistress jumped up and hurried out of the room. Three pairs of eyes followed her and then they heard her exclaim, "A real one? I was expecting plastic."

"I know." Master's voice sounded sheepish. "But... these smell better. And all it needs is water."

Mistress laughed. "Okay, sure, whatever you say. Is that the stand?"

"Yup. Can you take one end? It's not heavy, just... big."

And as Master and Mistress came into the room (he could hear the door shut behind them) Mikey couldn't help but stare. He had never seen anything like it before. They were carrying an entire tree- a small one, but it was a tree, all right. In their very own living room, a real tree!

Mikey looked around in bewilderment, which only deepened when he saw that Francis didn't look surprised at all and Nathan was actually smiling. What on earth was a tree doing in their house?

Tag list: @pigeonwhumps, @cepheusgalaxy, @i-eat-worlds

@honeycollectswhump @taterswhump, @starfields08000

@whumpsday, @fruitypinapple00, @currentlyinthesprial

@maracujatangerine

#bbu fic #bbu Christmas

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 1 month ago

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Delivery

Finding Home masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @flowersarefreetherapy @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Letitia is delivered to Sandy as a Christmas present from xier parents.

2.7k

CWs: BBU, pet whump, accidental misgendering, threats, gifting a person, dehumanisation, starvation, dehydration, fainting, restraints (zip-ties, ribbon), collar, cutting off of circulation, brief mentions of caning and sexual harassment

025602 sits in her box, wrists and ankles zip-tied, listening to Christmas music that doesn't seem to have stopped since she left the facility.

Only a few minutes after she was loaded onto the delivery van (which she didn't see, but her handler explained the process to her), music started and someone rapped on the top of her box hard enough to make her flinch.

"Hey, pet. You like Christmas music?"

"It can't answer you, dumbass. And be careful back there. Premium wrap, remember? It's not just the box that's wrapped."

That much she does know. Ribbon tied in a bow is wrapped around her collar, and her zip-ties, and artfully (tightly) crossed over her body into another bow, winding over her torso, arms, and legs, trussing her up.

Where does the word 'trussing' come from? She doesn't know. But it means she can't move an inch. Even her fingers... there's a tiny box held there, wrapped in paper and an elaborate bow. She doesn't know what it is. She can't bear to drop it, to disobey before she even gets to her new owner.

All she can move are her toes and head. Her toes hurt and tingle, she thinks the circulation's going, and she's scared to move her head.

She's allowed to be scared, here, between the facility and her new owner. She doesn't know if her new owner will let her.

She doesn't know whether she likes Christmas music, either. She doesn't know whether she's supposed to.

Now, in the present, she's been set down somewhere that still has Christmas music playing. The sticky bow on her forehead itches, and the ribbon itches, and her clothes itch, and she wishes she could soothe herself. But that's not allowed, and not possible.

In the dark and the heat and the endless sound, she allows herself to imagine what her new owner might be like. Short? Tall? Lenient? Kind? Strict? How will they punish her? What will she be used for? Will she be allowed outside? Bedding or not? Maybe she'll sleep in her box.

Despite herself, she hopes not. It's getting so sticky in here.

The music stops. She hears footsteps and her heart beats faster but they're heading away, which she supposes might be better.

No. No it isn't. How could she think that?

Although she's not allowed this either, she hopes that the scary woman who directed the delivery men earlier isn't actually her new owner. She sounded... prone to punishment. She's already threatened her once.

As nothing else comes, she allows herself to drift into an uneasy sleep that never lasts. She hears snatches of music and laughter as a door opens periodically, pushing into a dream of her attendance at the handlers' Christmas party. While they celebrated, she knelt in the corner of the room, face to the wall, and if she didn't keep perfectly still and perfectly perfect she'd be punished.

Sometimes they provoked her just to punish her. She knows it was deliberate provocation, despite what she was told. She also knows, now, that canes don't scar easily.

She has vague snatches of memories of celebrating, sometimes, but they just confuse her. As her handler said, pets don't celebrate. Why would they?

Her mouth is dry and her stomach cramps, and she cannot see a thing. But it's okay. She was prepared for that. What she wasn't prepared for was the sticky heat and how long she'd spend like this. And the uneasiness of the isolated noises that she can't quite pinpoint.

In between disorientating dreams, she wonders what's in the little box.

Eventually, the music starts up again, and she breathes a sigh of relief despite the slamming on her eardrums, grown used to the quiet.

Slow footsteps make their way down the stairs. Two pairs.

"Oh, it looks perfect under the tree. I can't wait to see how it's wrapped inside."

That's the woman from last night (025602 can't allow herself to think of her as scary anymore). A man (she thinks it's a man) hums in agreement.

"Sandy honey!" the woman calls. "It's present time!"

"Coming, coming," says a younger, groggy, less enthusiastic voice. 602 can almost hear the dragging of feet down the stairs, and then a much closer, "Why do we always have to do this so early?"

"You wouldn't think it was so early if you didn't stay up half the night," admonishes the man (her father?).

"I was talking to a friend." There's a thump on carpet. "So, who's first?"

"You are, honey. These two go together. Open the small one first. Your cousin chose it."

There's the sound of ripping paper, and tape and cardboard, and then a silence only interrupted by the jingling of bells.

"What..." says the younger one, sounding baffled. "I don't even have a pet."

There's quiet.

"No. No, you didn't."

602 can't tell if it's dread or excitement or disapproval or what in her voice, and she tries not to worry. The paper directly above her is ripped off, and the box lid removed, and 602 tilts her head back and smiles up at her new owner.

Unfortunately, it's more of a grimace, as the light hits her after probably nearly 24 hours in the dark and the pain shoots through her head.

A woman in her late 20s is looking down at her with an expression of shock or horror. She has shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes, vitiligo dotting her pale face. Her glasses are round and golden and it's all far, far too bright.

"Oh, hun, how long have you been in there? Let's get you out, let me help you. I'm just going to reach in, okay? I'm Sandy."

Without waiting for an answer 602's not sure she's capable of giving, Mistress Sandy hooks her hands under 602's shoulders and lifts her out.

"Christ. Did you order her this trussed up?"

"It's the premium holiday wrapping," replies her mum primly.

"Well, thank you, both of you. I'm unwrapping her." She lowers her voice. "I'm going to take that box off you, okay? And then we can get to your wrists and ankles, and everything else. Bet you're uncomfortable as hell."

That might be a statement 602 should answer, but her mouth is too dry. She can't move her fingers to help as Mistress Sandy prises the box out of them. Mistress Sandy looks at her... worriedly? Maybe? She'd like to believe that over the other expressions it could be.

Mistress Sandy picks up a small pair of scissors and cuts the zip ties on her wrists and ankles. She breathes in sharply as the blood flow begins to painfully return fully. Mistress Sandy snips the ribbon too.

"There you go, honey. Can you move now? Try to stand."

602 tries, but as soon as she attempts to straighten her leg she falls flat on her face, her vision spotting and tunneling and her hearing muting until all she can hear is the rapid beat of her heart.

She's moved, but she's not really conscious of it.

When she can see and hear again, she notices she's lying on the oh so soft carpet, her legs on a cushion.

"Welcome back. I was worried there. How do you feel? Honestly."

Mistress Sandy's voice sounds tighter than earlier, angry, and 602's heartbeat speeds up. She opens her mouth to answer but only a rasp comes out, and she coughs.

"Oh. You need something to drink. How long was she in there for?"

That must be directed at her parents, and out of the corner of her eye 602 sees her mother shrug. "She was delivered last night."

"So that's what? At least twelve hours? And that's not including packing or transport. No wonder she nearly passed out. I'll get you something, hang on."

Mistress Sandy rushes out of the room. As soon as she's gone, her mother fixes 602 with a piercing stare.

"Right. You listen up. I do *not* want you making a scene again. I don't care what happens, you're here to help our daughter, not hinder her and become the centre of attention when you shouldn't be. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And stop that rasping. Speak properly."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mistress Sandy runs back into the room with a cup of orange squash and one of soup, both with straws. Her eyes flick between her mother and 602, and her jaw hardens.

"Mom, don't scare her. Here you go, honey, sit up against the wall. I'll help you." 602 pushes herself backwards, and Sandy lifts her up and against more cushions. She helps 602 curl her tingly fingers around the cup.

"Orange squash, with extra sugar to get your levels up. It's strong and sweet, but drink as much as you can."

602 obediently drinks the whole cup. It is very sweet, and has a lot of taste to it, far more than anything at the facility ever had.

"That's better, honey. Drink this soup as well. Chicken, no stars until you're better enough to use a spoon. Let's get some nutrients in you. Easy does it, honey."

602 sips at the soup. That's tasty too.

"There you go hun. You sit here while we open the rest of the presents."

602 obeys, watching as Mistress Sandy and her parents open presents, conversation a little stilted. She thinks that might be her fault. It makes her a little sad, a little emptier, to watch this, a sense of aching familiarity, like she had something similar, once. But she doesn't know it.

Mistress Sandy claps her hands together. "Okay. Mom, dad, if we're finished here I'm going to take my new... pet upstairs. Tidy her up a bit."

"Right you are, honey. Make sure you're down in time for lunch."

"We will be."

"Just you. Not the pet."

"Right," says Mistress Sandy through gritted teeth, before turning to 602. "I'll help you upstairs. Can you stand enough to lean against me?"

602 tries, holding determinedly to the wall, and just about makes it upright before collapsing onto Mistress Sandy with wobbly legs.

"It's okay. I've got you. Let's go nice and slow, easy now."

602 doesn't think she could walk fast right now, even if she was ordered to. Mistress Sandy is supporting most of her weight, which she shouldn't be, 602 is a bad pet for making her owner do so much for her. Finally, they reach a room. Mistress Sandy leads her inside and shuts the door behind them, and 602 breathes in relief at the cutting off of the Christmas music. It's quiet, just the sounds of her and Mistress Sandy. That makes her nervous but she has quiet when she can see and that more than makes up for it.

"Let's sit down on the bed, okay? I want to talk to you, and I bet you need to get your bearings."

"Yes, ma'am."

Mistress Sandy winces and sets them both down. This is soft and bouncy and *weird*.

"Firstly, my pronouns are xie/xiem, and I'd like you to refer to me as Sandy, or Mx Sandy if you need a title. Although only in front of my cousin Jason, I'll introduce you to him tomorrow. No-one else knows."

"Yes, mx. Sorry, mx." Her stomach feels like butterflies are taking flight in it. Less than 24 hours and she's already screwed up.

"Hey. Wasn't your fault. It's not like I told you, and no-one's omniscient. Now. Do you want to get clean? That box must've been horrible. I have a shower and a bath, you can use either, and any of the soaps in there. There's also a shower cap, if you want to protect your hair until we can get you to a hairdresser. Would you like that? Private wash. Don't worry about the cost of the hot water, my parents are rich and won't check the bills."

602 nods. A wash that isn't a cold, pounding communal shower with handlers staring and not-so-subtly eyeing her up. They don't even remember that.

"Thank you, mx."

"It's the least I can do. I'll leave some clean clothes outside the door, and start thinking about your name while you're in there, yeah?"

"Yes, mx," replies 602, confused. Isn't Mx Sandy supposed to choose her name? That's what she was taught.

602 is slowly but steadily recovering her strength, and she makes her way unsteadily to the bathroom. There's no time for a bath, she doesn't know what her owner will do if she takes too long, so she warms up the shower water, strips and puts on the shower cap. Then she steps inside.

Even a few seconds in there makes her feel so much better. The warm, pounding water hits her screaming muscles, softening them, helping them. She scrubs the sticky sweat and stink off herself, using soaps that bubble and smell so good.

There's a knock at the door. "I've left some clean clothes outside when you're ready, honey, and I'm going to fetch you some food for later. Take your time."

602 does, but not too much, just in case. Mx Sandy has left her a baggy t-shirt, tracksuit bottoms, and a sweatshirt. She still has the plastic collar, and that's never been comfortable, but it's better without so much sweat.

She wishes her owner was here to allow her to wash under it properly. But the clothes are comfortable, at least.

Mx Sandy bursts through the door and 602 jumps, straightening to attention, heart pounding at the dark look on xier face.

"Sorry hun, didn't mean to scare you. My parents just gave me the small present you were holding, and it's a newly-developed tracker implant. There is *no way* I am injecting that shit into you."

"Thank you, mx."

"Again, bare minimum. You can take your collar off when you're in this room if you like." 602 tilts her head back to allow her owner access, and Mx Sandy unbuckles it carefully.

"Oof, that rubbing must be painful. We can buy a better collar and clothes that fit tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, mx."

"It's not a problem. None of it is." Xie hold up a full plastic bag. "My parents have confirmed you won't be allowed to attend our Christmas dinner or even eat any of the leftovers later, which is totally unfair but there's nothing I can do about it. So I've brought you some food, both snacks and proper food, and some bottles of drink. Please try to eat and drink as much as you can, we need to get your sugar levels back up. You can sit on the bed, entertain yourself however you like, etc, just don't come downstairs. Okay?"

"Yes, mx."

"Great. Did you manage to make a start on names?"

602 swallows. Yes, yes she did.

"I want whichever name you want, mx."

Mx Sandy sighs. "That wasn't what I– okay. Okay. How about this. I would like you to choose a name you'd like to be called. That would make me happy. Can you do that?"

"Y- yes, mx." She's confused, but she can do it. Possibly.

"I can read out a list of baby names, if you need suggestions. Unless you can read?"

"No, mx. That would be helpful, mx."

"Right." Xie pull out xier phone and type something in. "Here's a list. I'll read more if you don't like these. Serena, Aria, Elise, Evelyn, Letitia, Mila, Adelaide, Estella. Fancy any of them?"

602 hesitates, rolling the sounds around in her head. She pretends to herself that she's still trying to make a decision, even though she's already found one she's drawn to.

"Letitia, mx. I like Letitia, if– if that would be acceptable."

Mx Sandy smiles. "If you like it, and you're not just trying to please me."

"Yes, mx."

"Excellent. May I call you Tish for short, sometimes? You're allowed to refuse."

Tish. Tish. She likes that. Sounds a bit like fish.

Why is that a good thing, again?

"Yes, mx. I like it, mx."

Letitia. Tish. Letitia, Letitia, Letitia, Tish. She has a name now. She's owned, and she belongs, and Mx Sandy is happy with her.

Now all she has to do is ensure the situation stays that way.

#bbu fic #bbu Christmas

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