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bbu-whump-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Clinic

Against her will, Adrian brings Bea to a clinic - and is confronted by an old acquaintance.

Pet Safety Masterpost

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Content / warnings: BBU recovery, very short discussion of past noncon (using the r-word), fear of hospitals, a lot of undressed trauma. Lies, acts, double agents. Also, Adrian gets punched.

They stayed silent until the night had swallowed the lights of the facility behind them.

"I missed-" Adrian begun, instantly interrupting himself for saying something so trivial after what she'd been through.

Bea didn't seem to listen anyway.

"Jack is going to kill them."

Her voice was flat, void of any emotion, just stating a fact. Her gaze, however, was attentive, carefully studying Adrian's face in the shadows. As if his reaction was meant to guide her own.

Fuck. His hands wrapped around the steering wheel more firmly, and he realized too late that this, too, wouldn't escape Bea's attention.

"How do you know?" He was stalling. They both knew it.

"Because Jack likes punishment." She shrugged, gaze running over her broken fingers. "They disobeyed him. They obeyed you, instead. And you are his enemy."

Adrian carefully kept his face straight, fought back the hateful smirk that wanted to tug at his lips. He couldn't deny it had felt good to have the upper hand over the asshole, if only for some precious seconds.

"He's a bad guy."

Bea nodded carefully. "He is."

A long silence trailed behind her words.

"I recognized one of the Guards," Adrian said finally. "He was the one on top of you, when I found you. He raped you. You were within an inch of your life."

"I r-" She shivered, and instantly cast down her gaze, bit her lip apologetically. "I ... did that to you, too. But you do not think I should die."

"No, Bea. No." Adrian winced. "That's different. That was - You were -" Conditioned? You didn't know better? Not your fault? He faltered. "Fuck. I. I don't think he should die, either."

"Then why do you not go back to save them? Is that not what you do?" She frowned. "Do you only save Romantics, Adrian Delgado?"

There was no judgment in her tone, still. It would've been easier, if there was.

"No." He exhaled sharply. "No, I don't, Bea. But I can't save everyone. I need to be careful about who I save."

Bea tilted her head, and Adrian's fingers grabbed the wheel more firmly, bracing for the assessment that was about to come. You were not careful around Jack when it was about me.

She didn't say that.

"Who is Eric?"

The world went out of focus for a long moment.

A red light raced towards him. A horn blared. Angry shouts all around him.

Adrian slammed his foot onto the brake, hard enough for the car to stutter and die, right in front of crossing traffic. A pedestrian passing on the crossing banged their fist on the pick-up's hood and flipped him off.

Adrian couldn't react. Nothing felt real. Nothing made sense.

More horns went off.

The traffic light had turned green again and his car wasn't moving.

A warm hand wrapped around his. Smaller than Eric's. Paler. Stronger.

"Drive the car, Adrian," a soft voice said. "It's okay. Drive. We are safe."

Drive. Yeah. He could do that.

He turned the key in the ignition, felt the car come back alive under his feet. The light was still green. Carefully, he took up speed. Cold sweat covered his back.

"Someone I loved," he said, after some blocks, more to himself than to her. "Someone I failed. Someone I lost. Like I thought I'd -" He didn't finish.

Lost you.

Failed you.

Love you.

"I hurt you," Bea whispered. "I am sorry, Sir."

"No. Bea. Please. Don't be." He reached for her hand.

She cried out in pain, a soft, strangled whine. Didn't try to pull back though, he realized in horror, when he felt the hot, swollen tissue around her broken fingers under his own.

She'd had her fingers broken. Her ankle. She'd been beaten and electrocuted and most certainly been assaulted, all in the past 24 hours, and he was a hot mess just because she asked one question. Just because he'd said a dumb thing to her under stress.

He had to get his shit together.

Adrian pulled the car into a sharp turn. "The clinic isn't far."

"Master Adrian." He heard Bea suck in a sharp breath on the passenger seat. "Please, Sir. I can be good. I am still functional. I didn't mean to pull back. I am sorry. I can still serve you."

"You'll be safe there. It's a good clinic. Not like the ones you know."

Her hand - the burning hot one, the one with the broken fingers - wandered on his thigh. "Please, let me just go home with you."

"Don't do that ," he snapped. "Don't touch me. Don't hurt yourself."

"It was an act," she whispered, voice strained, as she pulled her injured hand back. "Was it not? In the white rooms. When you said you take me to a clinic? I... I don't want to go."

"No. You need help Bea. We need help. It was not an act."

I love you, Adrian Delgado, she'd said in the white rooms.

It was an act.

What did it matter?

"Do you trust me, Bea?"

She swallowed, before she bit her lip again and nodded. "Yes. Yes, Sir."

"Good. Then we go. I promise, you won't be hurt."

"No needles?" Her whisper was almost inaudible. "No drugs?"

Adrian clenched his teeth and didn't reply, as he drove onto the parking lot of a small, unassuming clinic on the city's outskirts.

They'd arrived.

'We don't treat pets', was a sentence he'd heard too often, trying to get medical aid for Bea. He'd known it would be different in this place; but he hadn't known just how similar the opposite would feel.

"We don't serve fucking WRU bastards," the nurse, a petite black haired woman hissed, flaming hatred in her dark eyes, as she blocked the clinic's entrance door. "Pets are people. Fuck off."

He figured the only reason she didn't spit into his face was Bea, held closely to his chest.

Fuck. He'd wrapped her into his jacket, not quite a uniform jacket, but still easy enough to spot WRU logo printed on its chest.

"I'm here for her," he said, jutting his chin at Bea. "Because I don't fucking think WRU-"

"Shut the fuck up, Adrian, or I'll break your nose a second time." A broad-shouldered, Black man in a doctor's coat appeared behind the nurse.

"You know this -?" The nurse stuttered, waving from Adrian to the doctor.

"Asshole is my brother-in-law. It's alright. I've got this." He jutted his chin towards Bea. "Set the girl down, Adrian. Diana, you look after her. What is it, dear? Obviously hand, eye, foot? Anything else? Sexual assault?"

"Check her for ever-" Adrian started, but was stopped by Ray's raised finger.

"Not you, asshole. I'm talking to my patient."

Bea winced and pressed herself into Adrian, shaking her head. "I'm good."

"Everything it is then," Ray said.

Fuck you, Adrian mouthed.

"No needles," Bea said. "Please, no needles."

"Fucking WRU," Ray muttered under his breath, and then louder. "We do this for the woman, and only for her, and depending on what she tells me about what happened, Adrian, I won't care about my wife having to bury her baby brother, have I made myself clear?"

Adrian grimaced. "Perfectly."

The nurse held Ray's arm, gaze still shooting daggers at Adrian. "He'll -"

"I deal with him," Ray said. "You look after her. No needles. No white room. No fixating her. No lab coats. New set of clothes that doesn't smell of facility. You know the drill. I'll be with you shortly."

Bea's gaze flickered between them. "I don't want to be alone," she mumbled. "Please."

"You won't be alone when you wake up," Ray said, voice soft as honey, as if there'd never been any harshness to it. "I promise."

"My owner," she said flatly, staring at Ray. "I want him. Nobody else."

"We don't use that word here," Ray replied gently. "And I can't promise that. We don't allow scum like him inside our clinic."

"I -"

"Marta will be there."

The nurse seemed to understand only now. "He's Marta's brother? Christ's sake."

"Yeah. Let me tell you Christmas isn't much fun at the Delgados'." Ray smirked. "Anyway. Is that okay for you, Bea?"

She didn't flinch, not only the tiniest bit, even though Adrian felt her breath catch for a second.

Bea. They hadn't said her name.

Why would Ray know it? Had the nurse noticed? Couldn't it still be plausible that he knew her name? Did Bea understand?

Bea nodded carefully. "Marta is nice."

The nurse's smile was somewhat forced. "Okay, dear. Sit in this wheelchair. We'll get you started."

Ray waited until the two of them had left, before he grabbed Adrian by the collar and shoved him into the wall. "Fucking idiot," he hissed. "Why? Why are you doing this? They'll ask questions. All of them will. Our guys. Your WRU cronies. Even my nurse, who isn't even pet lib. You're already walking a tight rope. You're not only threatening your own credibility, it's mine and Marta's, too. With our own people."

"I can't just bring her to a WRU clinic. You know what happened the last time she was in one?"

"I think we both know what happens to anyone who is in one. It's why we do what we do." He roughly shoved Adrian again, before he ran a hand over his own face. "You know that Diana will probably try and motivate me to kidnap Bea?"

Adrian chuckled tiredly. "Yeah well. Tell her, it would be too obvious and that I already suspect you to be pet lib and that this surely is a plot by me to lure you out because I always hated you anyway. Best even warn her to be careful around Bea, too, because she might well be a part of my plot."

He sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, that'll do." Ray looked up again. "But not forever. Not if you go on loosing your head like this. The girl distracts you from the job. And I fucking told you so on day one."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You're WRU, Adrian. Your job is to be the villain. And nobody - nobody - is supposed to see the moments when you're not."

"I'm -"

"You were just about to tell Diana, a stranger to you, that you hate WRU. While you're wearing their uniform, for fuck's sake. Do you want to get busted?"

"I came here because I need help for a victim of fucking WRU right now."

"And why did you have to do that? Because you had to help someone else two nights ago."

Adrian lifted his chin, but Ray cut him off. "Don't look at me like that. Marta tells me everything. You gotta pull yourself together, Adrian. Last shot. Or I'll cut you loose." He paused. "Your sister and I both agree on that."

Adrian gritted his teeth, bit back the nausea bubbling up in his stomach. "Great talk. You're going to punch me now, or what?"

Ray smirked and rolled his shoulders. "Aye."

He grabbed Adrian's lapel and roughly shoved him towards the exit. "Where?"

Adrian stumbled to keep his footing, before he spun back to challenge Ray again, arms spread wide. "Stomach," he hissed.

Ray's hand fell heavily onto Adrian's shoulder. His other fist swung forward to pound into his abdomen.

Even prepared as he was, even with Ray holding back at least a little, the blow was enough to black Adrian's vision out. All air was pressed from his lungs, his knees folding underneath him as if they weren't his own any longer.

Ray was insanely strong. Adrian could never stand a chance against him. And yet, Ray had always needed to rely on him. They'd relied on each other.

Fuck.

"Don't come back." Ray's voice was more vibration in Adrian's bones than actual sound in his ears.

Adrian rolled over to his side. A strangled groan escaped his lips.

Another nurse came running to Ray's side, ready to take to his colleague's side.

"Fuck WRU," Ray called, and then, quieter, to the newcomer, as he was already turning away to return into the building, "Just let him go. Asshole won't bother us again."

-------

pet safety tag list (ask to be added or removed!):

@gottawhump @flowersarefreetherapy @whumplr-reader @highwaywhump @tauntedoctopuses

@pigeonwhumps @whumppsychology @labgrowndemon @whumpinggrounds @somewhumpyguy

@whumpzone @tragedyinblue @theelvishcowgirl @light-me-on-pyre @whumps-and-bumps

@bilightningwhumper

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Hot&Dumb: Fate is Losing Its Patience

CW: negative internal dialogue, dehumanization, verbal abuse, sexually degrading language, manhandling, fear of death, noncon touch, threats of future noncon, BBU universe, Cameron’s mind is its own little warning

“. . . please . . . let me out . . .”

Cameron presses his hand against the rough wood of the door, dragging his nails down it. His finger catches on a splinter, tearing the nail away from the nailbed. He curses and slumps against the door. The throbbing pain in his finger is nice. It gives him something to focus on other than the darkness around him.

How long has it been? His tears have long since dried, leaving tacky tracks down his face. His throat burns. Hunger no longer registers, but he knows if he stands that his legs will give way. Instead he curls up further, resting his forehead against his knees.

“. . . ‘m sorry, I’m sorry . . . I promise I’ll be good.”

He screamed for God knows how long when Andrew first locked the door. Pounding on it, sobbing, begging him to come back. Nothing. Silence. Too much like the places locked away in his memory, hidden by white doors and twisting hallways. At least the closet is dark. A small mercy.

“. . . please . . . please . . . I can be good, I can be good, I promise . . .”

Silence. His heart races in his ears. There is no difference between his eyes being open or closed. Cameron breathes hard, trying to hear something other than his pounding heartbeat.

My name is Cameron, number 389022, designation Romantic. My body is not my own. My-my body belongs to my . . . I belong . . . I don’t belong to anyone. Who do I belong to?

My number is 389022, designation Romantic. My-my name is Cameron. My-my master gave me that name. He likes—liked—my name. He loved me. I-I loved him.

Seconds tickle by. Cameron’s mind drifts, thoughts bouncing around and not forming into words. He swallows hard against a bone-dry throat.

My number is 389022, designation Romantic.

. . . did they abandon me?

Cameron pushes the vacuum out of the way so he can lay on his side. He closes his eyes and desperately tries to fall asleep.

The door slams open, banging into his knee. Cameron yelps, scrambling to his knees. Andrew’s silhouette blocks the light and Cameron’s heart plummets as he sees the two men standing behind him. The one to Andrew’s left, standing tall with silver hair, smiles.

“Hey, 22, I’ve missed you.”

A chill slips down Cameron’s spine. His throat closes up and his hands shake. He can’t tear his gaze away from the shiny letters on the handlers’ uniforms.

WRU.

“Get out, whore,” Andrew snaps. “I don’t want your disgusting self in my house any longer.”

“Oh come now, that’s not how you treat this one.” The man steps past him and reaches for Cameron. He accidentally flinches back. “22. Respect.”

Every muscle locks up. Cameron’s gaze drops to the ground and he blinks away tears. He allows a cry as the man grabs his hair, yanking his head back.

“What do you say, 22? I know you remember me.”

“Y-yes, sir. I-I’m sorry.”

Handler Jason smiles. “Good boy. Look at you. You’re a fucking mess. I’m disappointed in you, 22.”

Cameron’s heart skips a beat. He whimpers and leans into his handler’s grip, ignoring the goosebumps that erupt over his skin at the touch. Handler Jason’s smile grows and he drags Cameron out of the closet, throwing him onto the carpet. Cameron doesn’t catch himself. He presses his face against the carpet. It’s not white tile, its carpet, it’s soft, he can dig his fingers into it.

Above him, Handler Jason and Andrew talk about payment. Something about how much money he’s worth now that he’s older. Cameron doesn’t really care. He sucks in deep breaths, trying to remind himself that it will be okay, everything will be okay, this will all work out.

You’re going back in. Remember what happened last time? You almost died because you were stupid and worthless and not pretty enough. What makes you think anyone will want you now?

He presses his face against the carpet to hide tears. They’re going to kill him. They’re going to take him back and kill him. He’s a stupid Pet. Nothing but a dumb whore who isn’t pretty enough, not skilled enough, not sexy enough. He’s just a stupid, ugly slut. They’re going to kill him. It’s the only thought that keeps tumbling through his mind.

Gloved fingers wrap around his greasy curls and yank him to his feet. Cameron swallows back the cry of pain and instead goes limp. The other handler talks with Andrew as Handler Jason drags him towards the stairs.

“I’ve missed you, 22. I’m not supposed to get attached, but my others just aren’t as good as you, nor do they cry as prettily. God, I’ve missed those eyes of yours all shiny with tears.”

“Please,” Cameron whispers. “Please, handler, please don’t let me die, please don’t kill me, I will do whatever you want, but please, please don’t kill me.”

Handler Jason pauses and pulls him close, whispering, “We’re going to go to the van, I am going to stuff every one of your holes, and I’ll make a decision depending on how well you suck me off.”

Cameron whimpers. “Please . . .”

“Oh, how I’ve missed you, 22. I am so glad to have you back.”

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 2 months ago

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Focus

Masterlist

cw: flashbacks, pet whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse

——————

A nod of his head, and a couple kicks of his foot. Graham bobbed along with the rhythm of the music flooding his ears, the string of the earbuds tapping against his chest as he moved, humming to the tune.

The clothes were soft to the touch, still hot from the dryer, perfectly perfect as they folded nicely into each little square. Not a single stain or rip in sight, and it was almost scary to think about. How could he manage to keep it that way? In what world would he be able to keep them better than how he found them, as he thought Edith would want?

Doing what he’d been instructed to, he focused back on the music, letting it roll over his shoulders and wash all the way down to his toes, steamrolling right over his nerves. It was scarily easy to lose himself in, to discard his keen senses and constant attention on the world around him in favor of the song.

Another shirt, tucked under his chin as he gently placed the sleeves into the middle and flipped the bottom to the top. The task was monotonous, but ten times better with music.

Graham’s feet tapped and circled himself as he stepped to his feet, hoisting the entire pile of laundry along with him. He couldn’t help but move with the beat of the drums, loudly thumping and encompassing in his ears. Stumbling to the drawer across the room, he grunted along with the words bumping into his head.

The song, one of his favorites, slowly rolled out into a distant heartbeat kind of sound, as the sound of the next came humming in as he shrugged open the top drawer.

It was a new song - most of them were, he was listening to Isaac’s playlist - but this one didn’t feel new. As soon as it began he was singing a hum exactly as it went, like he’d heard it a million times before.

He knew the words. They started up, the vocals growling and scratchy, and he could mouth them as soon as they came crashing into his mind.

Hey, focus.

He snapped to attention, nearly dropping to a kneel, but in a mere second he recognized that the voice wasn’t master’s. It wasn’t angry, commanding, or master’s, and it was right beside him. It still made him flinch, shook him up, although it was more feminine - sharp still - but juvenile.

You’re going to spill the milk if you keep doing that.

He was holding his breath. Taking a quick sip in, he was hit with the smell of a kitchen, of ingredients. Particularly sugary smelling ones, kind and warm, not at all like his master’s place. Apprehension flooded his senses next, freezing him still.

You can dance if you put the measuring cup down.

The instructions didn’t make sense - a measuring cup - yet he followed them to his best ability, dropping the laundry into the spot of the open drawer below him.

Now do an air guitar!

Ever so carefully, practically disobeying because he wasn’t explicitly ordered to, he craned his neck to the source.

It’s okay, I will do it myself!

There was a woman, one who wasn't supposed to be there, though he didn’t make any move to back off. Her hair was short but full, shaking along with her laugh, bangs home cut and caught in her eyelashes. She stood beside him, a smidge shorter but still tall with his button nose and his downturned eyes and his little lips. She seemed a bit older, but around his age as he was seeing her.

She giggled, her whole body moving with the noise, low and gravely. Come, do it with me! She was dancing to the music, harder, faster, better, letting it puppet her movements. It is fun, I promise!

Instead of doing as she told, he stayed still. She didn’t seem to notice.

Shifting back to a glimpse of the drawer, it was gone, finding only a bowl of goopy looking batter, a little distorted and fake looking, like it wasn’t really there at all. At the same time it was there, and so was she.

What if I cracked this egg on your head right now? She said, and that time she was holding a single egg - white - reaching out to plop it right over his face. Instinctively, he leaned away. What would you do?

“Who…?” He questioned, the piercing ache of his head stopping him from getting any farther in the sentence.

Do not give me that look, She tisked playfully, as if he hadn’t said anything at all, now put the sugar in. We have to be done before Mom gets back.

The white blotted out her face by half then, eating up her image to nothing. It hurt more by the second, the longer he stared the worse it got, the white picking at his mind until the music drifted off once more, and his mind was fully and painfully empty.

Barely recognizing the thump of his knees to the rug, he sucked in a slick hiss at the stab of affliction seeping through the white, just as the bass began to thrum.

This one was new again, not at all familiar, and as he listened it felt more and more like hearing through a fish bowl. Even with the song filling him to the brim, he could barely hear it over the seething pain.

I’m not gonna hurt’cha, pal, not as long as you’re a good boy. No need to look so scared.

This he recognized in an instant, even through the blinding brightness. 520 cowered below his handler, no matter how many reassurances he was given.

Don’t tell anyone, boy. It’ll be our little secret that I’m letting you listen.

That was odd. His handler was kind enough to allow him to dirty an earbud, something so terribly off limits he couldn’t believe it. And the music was blaring, blasting his eardrums, but still it felt good. It was horribly muffled and tacky, but he savored it.

You like it? The handler laughed, bitter and sharp, before knocking the pet upside the head, I can tell you do. Don’t lie to me, ‘520, makes’ me wanna hurt you.

He felt the smack, crisp and clean, slick with sweat and sending him further keeled over. Spit pooled out from his slack lips, gathering in a puddle on the white below him. He was surely out of it, blinded by the burning and the possibility of drugs coursing his system.

Stop your whimpering and get over it. You should be able to handle a little wack like that by now.

Huffing a shaking breath, he rested his head to what he thought was the dresser, a dark wash of wood, as he blinked ever so carefully. It didn’t make much sense for one to be there when the facility was only ever white. As his eyelids opened once again, it was instead the white painted wood of his master’s bedroom door.

The song was no longer recognizable, a contorted sound of words and instruments thick with sickness. He could feel his fingers curl through rug, yet see them flat on shining white tile.

He wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop, especially not on Master and Prince, but he could barely contain himself. The noise was louder than it should’ve been, confusing him, but the song was too good to worry himself over. A shift from the sickly buzz churning his mind in circles, a lighthearted pop sound.

That wasn’t right though, because his master didn’t enjoy that type of song, and never let Prince pick. The lady liked it, but she was never really there, and he couldn’t remember her name even if he wanted to, it’s all white and that’s all it will ever be-

“Graham?”

He coughed, hacking out juicy spittle, and a hand was pressed to his back. The instinct was there to slap it away like it would hurt him, but the white was too strong and it didn’t hurt him anyway.

“Graham, can you please look at me?”

It took him a moment to recognize that was his name, that he had a name at all, before he nodded.

She wasn’t there any longer, the lady with his face, nor was his handler. The voice was different, the hair orange, the eyes green and concerned.

“Otis?” Graham croaked, drool dribbling down his chin. The pain subsided to a throb, still there but less overwhelming.

“You are not okay.” They stated, and it wasn’t a question, they both know he wasn’t.

He lied anyway. “No. I am fine.” Trying to catch his breath, he couldn’t help the gather of sweat collected at his temple.

“No you are not.” They shook their head. “I will get Isaac-,”

“No, please, I am fine.” He curled his hand over theres, pressing his forehead to the chill of their knuckles. “Just a headache.”

They bit their lip, glancing toward the door. “You are sure? I can go get her-,”

The music was a little murmur of a song from the earbuds, having fallen out during his commotion. “Fine. ‘M fine.”

Already was the memory of what had just happened nearly gone, save for the affliction and the brightness of the white stinging a burn into the back of his mind.

To him the woman would remain nameless, and she did not exist, and was never even there.

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 2 months ago

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You Are My Sunshine: Lost and Found

CW: Parental death, past child abuse, implied past domestic violence, panic attack, mental breakdown, abuse flashbacks, mentioned alcoholism, grief, complicated family dynamics, negative self-talk, BBU universe

She’s passed

Thad stares at his phone, fingers hovering over the enlarged keyboard. The letters shift and dance. He blinks hard, telling himself the burning in his eyes is from the strain of reading. His fingers shake.

When?

Last night. She drove herself to the hospital. It was a stroke

The plastic edge of his phone case digs into his skin. She drove herself. His mother drove herself to the hospital and died from a stroke there. Alone. In a hospital away from her children, and the asshole she called a husband.

The three dots dance across the screen. Emmanuel still typing. Thad blinks and watches, forcing himself to breathe slowly. His heart burns along with his eyes and it’s all he can do to keep from throwing his phone, punching the wall, letting the pain building inside bleed into damage he can see.

Her parents want her body returned to Japan. Lindsey and I were planning to go to the funeral

We can afford another ticket

If you want?

Thad takes another deep breath. Robin texts. They’re picking up dinner and coming home. He can make it until they come home. All he has to do is wait a little longer. He can make it.

He forces his fingers to move again. I’ll have to ask Robin

It’s alright if you can’t, I know it’s a challenge

Because he can’t leave the country. Because he doesn’t have a passport. Because in the eyes of the government he doesn’t exist and that means he cannot leave the country legally for his mother’s funeral. All things Emmanuel knows. Somewhere deep inside, he knows that Emmanuel doesn’t care. He already has a plan, or has favors he can call in, or has a list of reasons Thad doesn’t have a passport apart from the barcode etched into his skin.

It’s been too long. He has to respond.

I’ll make it work. Thank you for letting me know

Of course. I love you

I love you

It feels weird, saying those words after they’ve been locked away in the back of his mind for so long. I love you. To a brother he doesn’t remember, to a family he thinks he can envision if he grabs at the shadows dancing in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t want to. There are scars on his mind that don’t come from WRU and they run far deeper than any wounds left by his handlers.

Thad puts his phone on the coffee table and presses his hand to his mouth. A twisting vortex opens in his chest, sucking in every emotion and leaving his mind a blank slate. Memories slip in and out. He tries to keep breathing. He tries to hold on.

When he blinks again, he’s lying on his side, arms curled against his chest. As if he was trying to fit in a small cage. With a wince, he forces his legs straight. His knee catches. A few curses slip free as he rubs at the muscle, slowly able to straighten out. Shoulders next. Painful, muscles desperate to remain in familiar curled positions. Thad sucks in a deep breath and runs through his stretches, picturing the ridiculously cheerful YouTube instructor who makes the videos he follows every week. Gradually, his muscles relax.

Keys jingle and the door opens. “Thad! I’m home!”

“H-hey, sunshine.” Thad forces himself off the couch. He cannot be there all day, no matter how much he wants to.

“Hey …” Robin’s smile falls and they put down their work bag. “Is everything alright?”

“My-my mother … she passed away last night. A stroke. She-she drove herself!” He leans heavily against the table, hand shaking. “She drove herself! He-he’s home, he doesn’t work, he could have driven her, but she drove herself!”

“Oh sunshine …”

Robin’s arms wrap around him. They smell like cedar today. Their jacket zipper digs into the side of his face, but Thad doesn’t care. He clings to them, choking on a sob as they slowly move back to the couch. Sitting down feels like falling. Thad grips Robin’s arm and fights to draw in a full breath.

They’re saying something. It’s meant to be soothing, based on their tone, but the words fall like a feather onto snow. Silent, unhelpful, heard by no one. Dimly, he’s aware of his fingers digging into Robin’s arm. He forces himself to relax his grip. No one is in danger. Robin is safe. He is safe.

Then why does it hurt so badly!

His father was home! He should have been the one to drive her! He should have been the one to take her to the hospital, stay by her side, and be there in her final moments! Thad grinds his teeth against fabric to keep from picking up his phone, dialing a number as familiar to him as his own, and screaming himself hoarse at the monster who haunts his nightmares.

Why couldn’t you love her! Why! You promised her a better life and yet you let her die alone in a country she never loved! You bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!

“Sunshine, it hurts.”

Thad reels back, staring at Robin’s arm. Indents mark the sleeve of their leather jacket, perfectly in the shape of his teeth.

“R-Robin, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t mean to, I didn’t, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-”

“It was an accident,” they whisper, taking his hand. “There’s nothing to apologize for, sunshine. It just stung a little and I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Thad sobs, doubling over himself. He’s terrified to reach out and touch his partner, to ask for assurance, for comfort. What if he hurts them again? What if he does more? Is he a danger to Robin?

No. I’m not what they made me. No. They love me. They love me. They love me. I am not what they made me. My name is Thad Castillo. My partner is Robin Castillo. I am a kindergarten teacher. I have 32 kids in my classroom. Robin is a lawyer. We have five children. I have a younger brother. I am not what they made me. I am not what they made me. I am not what they made me.

I am not what they made me.

“I brought home ice cream,” Robin whispers. “How about you go to bed and I’ll bring us some?”

The words are not spoken as an order, but Thad allows his mind to interpret it as such. He nods and forces himself to his feet. The hallway stretches into eternity before him. One foot, then another. One foot, then another. Porcelain clinks against each other as Robin pulls out bowls for ice cream. Carpet gives way under his shaking steps. The bed is only a few feet away.

Thad collapses onto the bed. He crawls far enough for his head to press against his pillow, but doesn’t make it any further. Just the thought of moving is too much.

Robin sets a large bowl of ice cream on the nightstand. “It’s chocolate, love.”

Thad’s eyes burn. Chocolate. They got him his favorite ice cream and his repayment was hurting them!

Robin’s cool fingers run through his hair. Thad forces his breathing to steady. They hum as they change into pajamas and pull the covers over both of them. Despite everything, they still lay close to him. Thad reaches out and wraps his arm around their waist. He moves just enough for his head to rest against their shoulder.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” they sing softly, running their fingers through his hair. “You make me happy when skies are grey. . .”

Thad closes his eyes, falling asleep to the sound of his partner’s singing.

………………………………………

One . . . two, three . . . four . . . five, six, seven . . . eight . . .

Thad stands in a corner of the room, watching the guests place silver envelopes on the small table. The numbers fall easily into place, slotting themselves around the shattered pieces of his heart. At his side, Robin sways, the hem of their black dress gliding over their boots. Emmanuel and his wife greet some of the guests, their voices low. One of them, an older woman, makes her way towards them and Thad unconsciously stiffens.

“Love,” Robin whispers. He grips their hand. “Breathe.”

“I am so sorry for your loss,” she says softly, but thankfully in English. “My name is Mizuki. I was your mother’s next-door neighbor when we were girls.”

“Thank you,” Thad forces out. “I’m her oldest son, Thaddeus, and this is my . . .” he freezes, desperately trying to remember if Japan had gender-neutral terms. His brain stutters.

“I’m his partner,” Robin says, effortlessly filling the space in the conversation. “Robin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet both of you. I wish it was under better circumstances.” Mizuki smiles. “She has wonderful children. I always knew she would make a good mother.”

Thad’s heart twists, but he forces himself to keep smiling. “She was the best mother. Her-her loss will be felt deeply by all of us.”

“I always knew she shouldn’t have gone to America. But what can you do? She was stubborn and set in her ways, determined to make a better life for herself elsewhere. Somehow.”

Thad cannot keep up the façade. His smile drops as he fights to keep breathing. “She was stubborn.”

Mizuki pats his arm. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

She moves on. Thad steps back until his head knocks against the wall. His shoulders relax and he can finally draw in a full breath. Robin watches him closely.

“I’m alright, I promise.”

“We will leave the minute you need to.”

Thad nods and takes another deep breath. In and out. Counting the seconds. In and out. In and out.

The room grows quiet. People slowly leave, each one muttering their condolences as they pass him and Emmanuel. Thad can’t help a churning of his stomach when he hears a few muttered comments about the missing family member.

I hope he drinks himself to death in a ditch somewhere.

“Thank God that’s over with,” Emmanuel mutters, stepping to his side.

Thad nods. He can’t fully trust himself to speak.

“I’m sorry the tickets weren’t any later. I know you and Robin must be tired.”

“We’re alright. How is Erica?”

“Good. The doctors say the meds should kick in within a few weeks, so we shouldn’t expect to see changes right away, but she’s been happier than ever. Last week she spent hours talking with Lindsey about hairstyles and dresses.” Emmanuel sighs. “I just wish her first dress had been bought for a different occasion.”

Thad glances to where his niece stands by Lindsey. The dress is black, but there are just enough ruffles to make him smile.

“It looks lovely.”

Emmanuel hums. “. . . how are your kids?”

“They’re doing well, despite some rough patches.”

“That’s part of raising kids, I am learning. I-I never realized just how much Mum did for us. And how much you did.”

Thad frowns, a lance of pain shooting through his skull. “Me?”

Emmanuel nods. “I know this isn’t the time, but thinking about her, about everything . . . you were our protector, Thad. I remember so many times you stepping in, stopping him from doing something . . .”

“You are my baby brother,” he mutters. “I had to protect you.”

“I never got the chance to properly thank you, so thank you. I mean it, Thad. You saved our lives. I-I’m just sorry that you—”

“It was a decision I will never regret. The best thing in my life came from that decision.”

“They’re quite something, aren’t they. I can’t turn on the news without hearing about something they’re doing.”

Thad glances to where Robin talks with Lindsey. Their ass really looks good in that dress. Despite the headache, he finds himself smiling. “They really are.”

They exchange a few more words before Emmanuel excuses himself. Thad rejoins Robin, who slips their arm around him.

“How was it?” they whisper.

“Fine. Short as usual.”

They hum. Somehow, Thad makes it through the rest of the night, despite a growing headache that starts behind his eye and then radiates through the rest of his skull. Dancing shadows line his memories, the smell of alcohol burning his nose even though he knows no one here is drinking cheap beer. His arm spasms, desperate to clench fingers that no longer exist. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Every nerve in his body screaming he is in danger.

Emmanuel laughs.

Suddenly he’s standing in his living room. The wooden floor under him becomes carpet and he can feel the tacky, clumped stains where it would never be clean again. Tom and Jerry plays on the TV. Easy, no dialogue, something his mother can follow along. If she’s there. If she’s paying attention. He walks across the carpet towards the sagging couch, smiling at the little boy sitting there with Emmanuel’s familiar upturned nose. Staring at the TV, a bag of chips in hand. Under his feet the washer clunks and screeches, begging for death as his mother forces another load of laundry in.

It's peaceful, quiet, and Thad can’t breathe. He hears Robin but also hears the sound of the beatup truck coughing in the driveway. As if in a dream, he tells Emmanuel to put away the chips and get out his homework. Emmanuel moves too slow, too slow, there are footsteps entering the house, beer, so much beer, he can’t take a breath, hand on the back of his neck, pulling him into the kitchen, further, further! Beer bottle slamming on the counter and Thad can’t raise his eyes. His gaze locked on his dirty shoes, the scuffed floor.

White room. No carpet. The carpet is back. His dream self thrown against the fridge from the force of the blow. Dropping to his knees on while tile. Hit again. Closed fist. He doesn’t look up, can’t look up, don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him!

“Sunshine? Thaddeus!”

Thad whimpers, the sound catching in the back of his throat. He can’t look up. The floor under his knees fades to vinyl. Fake wood, the color of midnight. Sterile, but warm. The shoes in front of him are familiar. They sit next to his tennis shoes in the doorway. This isn’t his floor, but he knows those shoes.

“Sunshine, love, can you please name five things you can see?”

An order. I have to obey an order. “F-floor. Shoes. Your shoes.” A quick glance to his left. “Small fridge.” There’s a word for that. Stupid! You’re so stupid! Dumb mutt!

“Oh, no, no, no.” Whispered, full of panic. “Thad, you aren’t dumb, honey. You’re my incredibly talented husband.”

Husband. He can’t be a husband, he’s not at—those shoes. Robin’s shoes. Robin. His partner.

Robin.

Thad doubles over, tears sliding down his face. Once they start, he can’t stop. It’s as if every safeguard in his mind crashes down, burying him under memories, twisting together his childhood home and the hell that shaped him into one horrifying mess. Strong arms wrap around him and he buries his face in Robin’s shoulder, sobbing. Snot and tears smear across their dress, but they don’t pull away, just gently sway.

“He couldn’t even bother to be there!” Thad sobs. “She’s gone! She’s gone and he doesn’t care! I hope he’s dead! I hope he’s fucking dead and rotting!”

Robin hums. For a moment, he hates himself for breaking down, for failing to be strong. But you know they don’t want you to be strong. They want you to be open, to trust them.

“He made me. . .” Thad whispers against Robin’s neck. “He-he made me sign up, I-I remember!”

“Oh Thad . . .”

“Manny-. . . Mum couldn’t get another job! We barely made it through the summer!” His head throbs as if it will split in two, the white rooms replaced with a home that always smelled of cheap beer. “I-I didn’t eat for days! Manny’s the smart one, Manny needed the future! He said it the money would be placed under Manny’s name! He wouldn’t touch it!”

“. . . so you-” Robin’s breath catches. “You signed onto WRU for Emmanuel?”

Thad screams into Robin’s shoulder. Everything is too much in his mind. His nails bite into their arm, desperate to keep him grounded as every memory WRU took from him floods through his body. His father. Over and over and over again. Bottles thrown at his head, smashing to the ground, across his face, in front of him when he tries to get away. Screaming matches that lasted long, long into the night, turning into the screams of a dying Pet as he tears their throat out.

“It should have been him! He should have fucking signed up! Manny’s his kid!”

Robin rubs his back, not making a single sound. He knows he should let them go, knows he’s hurting them, but he can’t make himself move. He screams again and again until he tastes blood in his throat, until he’s gasping for breath, until he’s shaking. Suddenly aware of how tired he is, how his joints throb against the cold floor.

“It should have been him,” he whispers. “It should have been him, it should have been him, not me, not me, why did he hate me?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Robin says softly, kissing the top of his head. “None of this was your fault, sunshine.”

“But I signed my life away!”

“Because he failed in his role as a father. He did not take care of you as he should have. You were only a child, Thad, this isn’t your fault.”

Thad sniffs, wiping tears away with his arm. He blinks away tears. “Sorry, your dress—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get it dirty.”

Robin shakes their head. “Don’t worry about it, sunshine. Would you like to move to the bed? This floor is rather hard.”

Thad nods. They help him to his feet and to the bed, humming the whole time they do so. He focuses on the humming and takes several deep breaths. When he looks up, his gaze instantly lands on Robin’s arm, at the bright red divots dug into their triceps. He winces.

Robin smooths back his hair. “It’s okay, Thad. I’m not mad, I promise, sunshine.”

“. . . still, I’m sorry. I never want to hurt you.”

“I know, love, I know. Come on, lay down.”

Thad curls under the down comforter and it’s as if that’s the signal his body has been waiting for, his muscles relaxing and his eyes growing heavy.

“Do you want anything to eat?”

“No thank you, I-I’m not hungry.”

Robin nods and joins him under the blankets. They rub his back. “Thad, please tell me five things you can see.”

“Um, the blanket. The light.” He manages a smile. “You. Your—is that my pajama shirt?”

Robin chuckles. “I may or may not have packed your pajama shirt.”

“I like it. It looks good on you.”

“That’s only four things, sunshine.”

Thad glances around. “And that ugly painting on the wall. Is that supposed to be a horse?”

“It looks more like a dolphin. Maybe it’s abstract.”

“Stupid,” Thad mutters against their shoulder.

“Perhaps. Unlike you. You are smart, and kind, and a very good man.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

Tagging: @pigeonwhumps @blood-is-compulsory (please let me know if you want to be added/removed!)

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 3 months ago

Text

Jack

Jack is back, facing Adrian and an injured Bea in the white hallways of a facility. (Follows right after this).

Pet Safety Masterpost

Content: BBU, threats, implied conditioning, double agent caretaker, broken bones.

"You're not supposed to be here." Adrian's voice was icy, chilling even to himself.

Jack Donnell, however, just smiled. "That's one of these things that are entirely up to the observer. I alone brought this WRU branch revenues in the upper seven figures over the past five years. This does come with some more... exclusive privileges. Even though you, Inspector Delgado, obviously didn't get the memo."

The handler, who'd had opened his mouth, ready to speak, swallowed, and looked from Jack to Adrian to the two imposing Guards standing behind Jack. Between the four of them and the trembling shape of Bea by their feet, he seemed tiny despite his own muscles. "I'll... get someone to officially welcome you, Sir," he mumbled, before he threaded past the Guards, keeping close to the white walls, to quickly leave.

Adrian squared his shoulders. "What do you want?"

"My phone pinged." Jack grinned. "Told me a wayward pet of mine had been picked up by WRU."

"She is not yours."

"That's a legal issue that's not yet been resolved." Jack stepped in closer to Bea, his polished cowboy boots too close to her outstretched body. She was shivering, sweaty forehead pressed to the cold white tiles.

"Don't, Jack." Adrian snarled. "Bea. Get behind me."

She didn't move.

Jack chuckled. "Don't what, Delgado? You're walking on thin ice. Do your bosses know you're investigating me? I don't think so. Because they are very keen to stay on my good side." He raised his foot. Before Adrian understood, before Bea could even see what happened on her blind side, his boot crushed down onto her hand.

Her scream was dampened by the walls' designs - and by her own training, Adrian understood in horror. Volume, tone, modulation, all designed to display her pain in a perfectly chereographed way, one that he'd heard way too often in the halls of the facilities.

Not from her though. Never from Bea.

Fists clenched, Adrian lunged forward.

Jack smirked and took half a step back from her. The Guards behind him moved forward in unison.

"Get him."

Jack hadn't seen their eyes at Bea's scream. He hadn't noted the tension in their shoulders at this environment. And he had no idea, that WRU had ways to make sure their products respected their handlers.

Adrian knew. He'd been one, after all.

"Respect," he yelled. One hand on his belt, one raised by his side, in a pose ingrained into the handlers almost as deeply as the trainees' positions into them.

It wouldn't have worked outside on the streets, where the Guards' need to protect their primary would outmatch anything else. But here, in the labyrinthine white hallways of WRU, with the white tiles and the muffled screams and gray uniforms, obedience to a handler's command was their only lifeline.

As much in sync as they had stormed forward they soundlessly folded to the ground, lined up next to Bea.

"Stay," Adrian growled.

His hand dug into the front of Jack's shirt, the man too surprised to even fight him.

Adrian shoved him into the wall. There was barely any legroom for them between the pets stretched out to their feet.

"Stay away from her, Jack."

The Guards stirred.

"Stay," Adrian repeated firmly, utterly aware that Bea, too, pressed herself into the ground in fear. She was quietly sobbing.

"You touch me, you lose your job," Jack hissed. "You touch me, you lose any claim to the little one eyed whore, too. She'll be mine. And trust me. She won't die pretty." He pursed his lips. "Maybe I'll make you watch. You'll make a fine addition to my Guard team, Delgado. Think I'll call you Edradour. Eddie."

One of the Guards moved. Instinctively, Adrian put his foot on the man's head. He stilled again.

"Take your Guards and get lost, Jack."

"You know, I'm not into guys," Jack said, eerily unaffected. "But I'll make an exception for you, Eddie. Your colleagues at this place, I hear they can make Guards, who just love to suck their masters' cocks."

There were steps echoing from the end of the hallway. That asshole Handler probably had found someone to help him dissolve the situation.

"Careful." Adrian blecked his teeth. "Some also love to bite." He stepped back from the Guards, still shielding Bea with his body.

The two men swiftly went back to their feet, heads kept low.

"Mr O'Donnell! Jack!" A manager's heels clicked on the tiles as she hurried towards them with a wide apologetic smile. "We apologize for the error! Can I offer you something to make up for your inconveniences?"

Jack's blue eyes rested on Adrian, still and deadly as an iceberg. "I'll come back to you about this," he replied. "Just make sure such an error never happens again. I'd hate for anything being... terminated."

The manager's eyes narrowed as she looked from Jack to Adrian and then down at Bea. "What can-"

Jack waved a hand to shut her up, not bothering to even meet her gaze. "See you, Eddie," he said. "I'll keep an eye out for you." He snapped his fingers and the Guards pushed past the newcomers to clear a path for their boss.

The manager's stare at Adrian was almost as icy as Jack's, but she didn't say anything, just jogged past Jack and kept talking at him in a low voice.

He wouldn't listen to a word she said. Adrian knew, and he could bet that the woman knew as well. But none of that mattered.

He got to his knees instead. "Hey, Bea," he asked softly, reaching out for her. "Can you get up?"

She nodded fiercely, got to her knees. "Yes, Sir." She used her good hand and good foot to push herself off the floor into a wobbly stand. The two outer fingers of her right hand were absurdly swollen.

Adrian clenched his teeth and shook his head. "Fuck this theater. I'm getting you to a clinic. Now."

He swept her up from the ground in a bridal carry. She was so fucking fragile. Who could see that and decide to hurt her?

"It's okay for an owner to care about his pet," she mumbled, voice still shaky. Her healthy hand rested against his chest, as if she were reassuring him. Or well. She was, in fact, reassuring him. "Not everyone does, but some do, and so do you. It's not theater. You're a good owner, Sir."

"Fucking asshole broke your fingers."

"It's okay." She leaned against him, as he shifted her weight to reach for his ID card and get them through the mass of security doors on the way to the parking lot. "He's broken more than that before. And I live."

"You better." Adrian's grip settled firmly around her again. "I paid a lot of money for you after all."

She hummed against his chest, as if complimenting him for the act. "I'll be good for you, Sir. I want you to be happy with me."

Was she acting too? She had to be, but then again, weren't these the things she believed anyway?

"I love you," she said.

His hands dug into her sides firmer than intended.

She winced.

"I love you, Adrian Delgado."

"I love you, too, Bea," he whispered.

Her head whirled around, her eye wide in shock as she tried to read his face, waiting for a cue, an answer to a question none of them dared ask.

He didn't have one.

"Stand," he ordered instead, when he reached the car and let her down carefully so she could keep herself upright. He hated seeing her bare feet on the ground, the black shorts, the white shirt.

"We'll drive to a clinic, and then I'll get you home."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you'll not try and run again," he added, more loudly. "Stay out of trouble."

"I won't, Sir."

Her smile was perfectly complacent.

Yet still he knew, trouble had only just begun.

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 3 months ago

Text

Hear No Evil - Chapter 3

Masterlist

Chapter 2 // Next (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-typical institutional slavery, nonsexual and sexual nudity, implied prior noncon, it/its pronouns used to dehumanize

Rowan stared down, transfixed on the boy kneeling at his feet. The starkness of it all washed through his blood like ice. His eyes swept over the pale, naked skin, a canvas covered in scars that spanned hues from pale white to deep red. Fresh bruises overlaid the scars, a similar patchwork of purples and blues that belied the shape of handprints and bludgeoning tools. As he drank in the carnage, it dawned on Rowan that the boy was even scrawnier than he’d suspected when peering through the bars of the cage on the sales floor. Now, in the bright lights of his condo, he could see frail that ribs showed through the taut skin of the boy's back.

Then, Rowan’s eyes locked on the thick, standard-issue leather collar, the only item resembling clothes this boy had been afforded for transit. It was tight around his neck, a small padlock affixed in the back. Rowan knew that the key had been secured somewhere in the box, likely in a packet along with the rest of the paperwork. The paperwork, of course, that was affixed to the lid of the empty box just a few feet away.

“Hey there,” Rowan said, using the same voice he would if he were speaking to an injured child. What else could he do? He was in a position of undeniable power and influence, and the least he could do was try to reduce the threat of his very presence. “My name is Rowan Bailey, but uh, you can just call me Rowan. Welcome home. Well, it doesn’t have to be your home forever, but uh, for now, yeah? Oh, man, I’m getting ahead of myself here. I’m already talking too much, I know, I’m sorry. I just want you to know that you’re safe now. That’s the most important part. You’re safe now, and you’re going to live here for a little while, and I’m going to help you. You’re safe, I promise”

The boy didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t lift his head. Rowan bit down on his lower lip, still tender from where he’d worried it raw overnight. Part of him wondered if even a single word of what he’d just said had gotten through, stirred any understanding, instilled any comfort. How could it, when Rowan didn’t even believe in himself?

---

The pet strained to make out what Master was saying. There was a warm buzz of words above its head, but it couldn’t discern a single one. Master had certainly said a lot, and the pet could only hope that there hadn’t been any important instructions. Its first impression with its new master was important, it knew that. Its old master had discarded it for this same insolence, this same tendency to ignore his words and to exist only between the ringing of its own ears.

So the pet strained further, titled its chin up just a little bit, hoping that it could steal a glance upwards and to Master’s lips. Then, only then, it might be able to discern the commands from the other rambling words. And if it failed to do so now, it would certainly feel the sting of its disobedience in short order.

---

The boy didn’t move, much to Rowan’s disappointment. He felt almost certain that he’d said something wrong, or otherwise not said something that he should have to get his attention. It’s not like he could ask the boy’s name – he knew that the so-called pets were expected to respond to their ID numbers, but there were no proper names given – and it’s not like they could speak as equals until some serious deprogramming had taken place. As far as the boy was concerned, Rowan owned him body, mind, and soul. There was no conversation to be had.

Rowan took another breath to muse over his current situation. He wrung his hands together to hide the fact that his fingers were shaking, body buzzing with adrenaline. All he’d done so far was talk, rambling and tripping over his words, a directionless prattling of platitudes. Since he hadn’t issued an explicit command, perhaps, it was possible the boy wasn’t going to move or respond until Rowan gave him something more to work with.

For all his time and effort invested into the PLF and its mission to liberate people from oppression, Rowan had never spent much time with victims in active rehabilitation, and certainly none in the early stages of rescue like this. He was trained to blend into the crowds of buyers, of skeptics, of men poisoned by lechery, lust, and power. His mission was to capture the horrors, the abuses, to steel his stomach against the cogs of the system and the bodies it crushed as they turned. And with the coolness of an undercover operative, he’d sit at this desk into the early hours of the morning, stitching together the footage and audio that he’d spent his weekends capturing. It was the niche in which he’d thrived, and it was one that he’d never had an interest in moving beyond.

Facing the victims that had been pulled out of hell was a different skillset altogether. Rowan believed it wasn’t just a different skillset, but an entirely different personality type, that was required to do such important work. To try and heal the victims, to see them clawing their way to personhood from brokenness, had always put a deep discomfort in his bones.

But now, his own discomfort would have to be secondary. He’d made the decision to bring this boy into his home, and now it was his solemn duty and obligation to bring the boy from where he knelt now and into a future of freedom. Rowan knew that it would take the heart of a man much stronger and braver than himself in the moment, but for now, he was all the boy had.

“Alright,” he said out loud, hoping his voice sounded steady despite his nerves. “I’m going to head over to the box you got here in, yeah? I’m going to grab the papers there and find the key to undo your collar. Once I get that off, I’ll show you your room and some of the clothes I got for you. I think- well, I know that the papers lied about your weight, so I’m sorry if the clothes are a bit big. You can get dressed and then I’ll make us lunch. I’m sure you’re hungry – have they fed you? Oh, that’s a stupid question, of course they haven’t, they never give food or water before transport. Right. That’ll be our second order of business, then. Collar off, bedroom and clothes, then food and water. That sounds like a plan, yeah?”

Rowan thought he could see the boy’s head perk up just slightly, almost imperceptibly, eyes peeking up between thick black eyelashes and unkempt hair. But as soon as Rowan peered down at the boy’s face, that same gaze darted back down.

“Oh, it’s okay, you can look at me,” Rowan continued to ramble as he fished the key to the collar’s padlock out of the black bag that included another standard-issue collar, an ID tag with Rowan’s contact information and the boy’s WRU number, and a referral card to WRU-sponsored electric collars. Once the collar was off the boy’s neck, this whole bag would be disposed of, Rowan was sure of that. He’d never have to wear such a cruel device again, not so long as Rowan was breathing.

Despite his attempt at reassurance, the boy kept his eyes glued to the floor. If they were going to make any progress, Rowan knew he couldn’t let it bother him, and he certainly couldn’t take that behavior personally. They had to take this at the boy’s pace, not his own. However slow that would be, Rowan had to be okay with it.

“I’m going to touch your neck now,” he said as he leaned down towards the collar. “You can let me know if I need to stop. I’m just going to unlock this collar, and then I’m going take it off.” Just as the rehabilitation materials had encouraged, Rowan walked through every step of what he was going to do, using plain words and reassurances.

He also knew that he’d receive no protest. Resistance and the concept of refusal were trained out of victims of the system, so he just had to hope that he was doing right by the boy in removing the collar right from the start. Part of him wondered if this action was for his own comfort rather than his new guest’s comfort, but he couldn’t stomach such a blatant sign of the system binding this victim. There was no way he could hope to begin rehabilitation with a mark of ownership sitting heavy on the victim’s neck.

The padlock came undone with just a slight twist of the key, and the collar came unbuckled just as easily. Rowan eased the collar off and stuffed it in the bag, tossed the key in after it, and cinched it shut. It would go in the bin just as soon as the boy was settled in.

“There, how’s that feel? It must feel nice to let that skin breathe a bit. I’ll take care of that – I promise you’ll never have to see that collar again.”

---

The pet felt more naked without its collar than it actually felt from its true nakedness. The collar from its old master had been exchanged for a standard-issue collar once it had been processed through the facility, but it seemed that Master had no intention of fitting it for a new one at the moment. That was okay with the pet, of course it was, because its job was to abide by its new master’s preferences. If that meant that it would go without a collar, so be it. Perhaps Master had a different mark of ownership that he preferred.

Master was talking still, going on and on, a soft hum of sound that wrapped through the hall. He’d stepped to the side, so the pet couldn’t try to read his lips even if it dared to look up. Given that there was no shouting, or no blows against its body, it figured that there hadn’t been a command yet. It strained its senses for the sharp bark of a command, a change in tone that would indicate the pet’s attention was needed, but none came.

Instead, Master began to walk down the hall, spilling words into empty air. After a moment Master’s footsteps stopped, and turned back towards the pet.

Oh, the pet realized with a jolt of fear up its spine, Master wanted it to follow.

So, follow it did. It did so on its hands and knees, as was expected unless given the command to stand and walk, and it followed Master down the hallways of its new quarters. Something inside its chest tightened, a sensation of both fear and excitement. What awaited it down this hall? What would its first few hours here with Master bring? Its skin puckered with the lingering chill of transport, and its body ached with the final bruises and scars of the latest refurbishment cycle, but it could bear whatever lessons Master was going to imbue. After all, it wanted nothing more than to serve Master with all of its being. It wanted to be good.

---

“You, ah, can walk if you’d prefer. Upright, that is, on your feet. Or, uhm, if that’s more comfortable for you right now, that’s fine too.” Rowan felt like he was tripping over his words as he looked back at the boy crawling behind him. It was enough to make him feel like he was going to be sick.

This isn’t about you, he reminded himself again. This isn’t about you and your comfort level. Get comfortable with being uncomfortable.

The second bedroom was the first door past the kitchen, a door which Rowan had left ajar. He’d purchased a two-bedroom condo with the intention to use the second bedroom as his office, which it had been for the last three years. That was, of course, until the early hours of the morning as he’d prepared for the boy’s arrival.

In many ways it was still more of an office than a bedroom. A few hours had only given Rowan so much time to redo the space in preparation for his guest’s arrival. There were some things – including way too many boxes of old AV equipment piled in the far corner – that wouldn’t have a place in the condo otherwise. But Rowan had still managed to take out the desk and his main workstation so the futon would fit comfortably. He’d also filled the filing cabinet drawers with the clothes he’d purchased for the boy, a temporary fix that would have to be sufficient until he got a proper dresser set up. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. It was certainly more than the boy would have been afforded in the training facility.

“Here we are,” Rowan said as he swung the door fully open and turned on the light, “this is your room. I know it’s really messy right now, and that there’s a lot of junk in here, but I’ll have that moved out in no time. But, yeah, the futon is yours, your bed I mean. All of those blankets are yours too, but you don’t have to use them all, just however many you want. I didn’t have more than one extra pillow, but I have another one on order. I’ll get around to ordering you a proper bed this week, you know, a mattress and all, plus some new sheets. Those sheets there are clean, I promise, but I didn’t have time to patch the holes or deal with the fraying. I mean, okay, I didn’t have time to do even half of what I wanted before you got here. But this was kind of a last minute thing. I know that doesn’t make it right. But, I mean, those clothes are yours, feel free to put them on. If you don’t like those, there are some more in the filing cabinet over there, some different options for pants and shirts and stuff, maybe you’ll want to layer up. I bet it’s a little cold in here for you, yeah? I can turn up the heat. Or if you’re fine, I won’t. It’s your call, yeah.”

Rowan wished he had the ability to shut up. He was usually more composed, more succinct in his words, concise and direct. Silence and attentiveness was his trade. Now, with the world shifting beneath his feet - the feet at which a young man knelt - he felt like he was coming undone. Words came freely from an otherwise tightly-sealed mouth. But the boy crawled into the room with fluid determination, clearly indicative he’d retained something from Rowan’s rambling.

Instead of going to the bed, and instead of proceeding towards the filing cabinet with the clothes, the boy crawled to the center of the floorspace that Rowan had cleared and resumed his kneeling position there. Motionless.

---

The pet tried to glimpse what it could of the room as it moved forward, head bowed, eyes supposed to be on the floor. There was something resembling a bed to its left, and piles of boxes to its right. There was some furniture further into the room it couldn’t quite get a good look at, not from this angle. Still, it could sense the room was small, furnished as though it were an afterthought.

Master was much chattier than its old master, a continuous hum of noise that should be words, but words that the pet couldn’t quite hear. It was still all too distant through the ringing in its ears. Fear replaced frustration, it always did now, ever since the last of its hearing had started to fade. Its attempt to obey any commands, even at the training facility, were usually its best guesses. Only when its old master or its trainers would raise their voices, bringing their yells to a fever pitch, could it reliably decipher what they wanted.

Of course, it couldn’t raise the issue with them. For as much as hearing had been taken from it, speaking had been taken from it as well. A pet was seen, and not heard. Its old master had commanded complete and utter silence, and since the pet had failed to obey that simple principle, it had paid in its hearing.

Silence. And so now, as it knelt and prostrated before Master, it ensured its breath was level. No errant wheezing, no sobs choked up in the back of its throat, no whining or whimpering. Silence, beautiful silence, and listening as best it could for whatever command might follow.

---

“You go ahead and get dressed, yeah? I’m going to head to the kitchen get us both something to eat. I’m not really sure I have the stomach for it – hell, I’m not sure you do either – but it’ll be easier to tackle the day with some food in our systems. I’ll make sure to get you some water too, you’re probably parched. I’ll shut the door so you have some privacy, and I should be back in just a little.”

Rowan still wasn’t sure whether any of his words were getting through, but he knew he had to try. A few steps back and he shut the door, giving the boy enough time to cover himself in private. In the meantime, Rowan turned his attention to making something resembling a meal. He had picked up a smattering of ingredients from the supermarket last night, as much as he could grab in the fifteen minutes before it had closed. That haphazard grocery haul had included a few varieties of jams and breads. Rowan had no idea if the boy had any personal preferences for his sandwiches, and he had a feeling that he wasn’t going to learn any time soon.

“Can’t go wrong with a PB&J, right?” He muttered to himself as he opened the fridge to grab the bright purple grape jelly. “That’s a solid meal, shouldn’t upset the stomach, palatable by most people’s standards. Yeah, some peanut butter and grape jelly for me and him, that’s the plan.”

The sandwiches came together quickly, although Rowan paused to put an extra spoonful of peanut butter on the boy’s sandwich, and then another. It looked like he was at least thirty pounds lighter than had been marked in his WRU papers, and likely at least twenty pounds lighter than he should be for his size. Although Rowan wouldn’t be able to tell for certain until he convinced the boy to stand, it seemed that there would be a lot of dense and calorie-rich meals in the boy’s future. But as with everything else, healing from starvation would require time and the intervention of professionals much better equipped than Rowan. A sandwich would have to be a good enough start.

Rowan fished his phone out of his back pocket and glanced at it. The screen was blank – no missed calls, no missed texts. It seemed that the rehabilitator hadn’t called him yet. After double-checking to make sure that his ringer was on so he wouldn’t miss the call when it came, he grabbed the plate with the boy’s sandwich, as well as a fresh glass of water, and took it back to the bedroom.

A knock on the bedroom door elicited no reaction, not even a creak of the floorboards. Rowan hadn’t exactly expected an answer, but he still paused an extra moment before pushing the door open.

To his disappointment, but certainly not his surprise, the boy was kneeling in the exact same position he’d been left in almost ten minutes prior. The blankets hadn’t moved, the drawers hadn’t been opened, and the boy was still naked. He clearly hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Alright, you don’t have to get dressed, I guess,” Rowan tried. Again, he would certainly feel better if the boy got dressed, but he wasn’t going to push his luck. Not yet. Clothes would come in due time, and as long as he was meeting the boy’s needs, discomfort was survivable.

Instead of pressing the matter further he knelt and placed the plate and glass of water within his new guest’s reach. Even this didn’t elicit any movement. Maybe, just maybe, Rowan thought he saw the boy draw in a slightly deeper breath, skin shifting over his stark and visible ribs. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

Before Rowan could speak again, his phone rang.

Ah, shit. A quick glance at the screen confirmed that it was the call he’d been waiting for.

“I’m real sorry, I have to take this call,” Rowan said while scrambling to his feet. “I’ll be back soon – you can go ahead and eat and drink, yeah? That’s all yours.”

A few seconds later and he was out the door, phone up against his ear.

“Hello, this is Rowan Bailey.”

“Mr. Bailey, this is Angela Herrera, the PLF Rehabilitation Specialist assigned to your case. Mr. Greyson Valentine reached out to me personally to make sure you had immediate support for this unexpected intake.”

Again, just as with Grey’s call, Rowan felt an immediate sense of relief. He wasn’t in this alone. Not now, not ever. There were people that were going to fight for this victim with the same zeal and enthusiasm as they had for so many others. It didn’t matter that Rowan fucked up by taking this on so brazenly, not in the grand scheme of things. Help was on the way.

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear your voice. And, please, Rowan is just fine. Did Grey – I mean Greyson – tell you the details of our situation here?”

“Rowan, got it. As for the details, well, I got the Clifnotes version via email. It seems that you brought a ward home from a liquidation event with no prior notice or planning. You’re currently lacking any advanced rehabilitation training, and no rehabilitation training with high support cases like this one. You’ve held a primarily investigative job with little to no interaction with victims in rehabilitation at all. And, if I can make a guess from your voice, I’d presume your new guest has already arrived?”

“Yeah,” Rowan said with a wry chuckle, “you’ve got the gist of it. And now I’ve got a naked man in my spare bedroom, and I’m trying to get him to eat a sandwich or get dressed without either of us crying. I’m in over my head here, if I’m being honest. I just wanted to do a good thing, but now all I can think about is how much I’ve fucked up.”

“You did a good thing. I promise, no matter how ill-equipped you might feel right now, you still did a very, very good thing. Rescues aren’t always as clean and well-prepared as they seem in the rehabilitation materials and training modules. For every perfect rescue, the ones where the ward is painstakingly selected based on their best chances at successful rehabilitation and reintegration, there are scrappy, impulsive, and unexpected rescues from well-meaning individuals like yourself. And let me tell you upfront, most of those rescues get happy endings too. That’s where I come in. My job is to support you and make sure that this goes as smoothly as possible, and we can work together to get our new friend healthy and confident in their personhood.”

Her voice was level and soothing, as though she’d practiced these words dozens of times. Maybe she had. It was her job, after all, wasn’t it?

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” she said, and Rowan heard the faint shuffle of papers. “And I’m already getting materials prepared so I can come over and do an assessment and get you guys started on the path to recovery. What does your availability look like for a visit today or tomorrow?”

“I’m completely free until next Monday, which is when I have to go back to work. I took a few days of PTO to handle this whole… situation.”

“I can work with that. It looks like you’re not too far from me, so how about I head over in a few hours? I want to make sure I have all of my materials here in order for you first, but after that, I’m ready to get this case opened and some progress started for both of you.”

“Please,” he said, and he hoped after the words left his mouth that he hadn’t sounded as desperate as he felt. “Today is great. Any time, as soon as you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

“Sounds like a plan, then. I’ll finish getting my things together and then I’ll be on my way. Focus your energy on surviving the next few hours, get him as settled as you can, and then we can take it from there together. I’ll see you soon.”

Can’t be soon enough, Rowan thought, casting his gaze back to the closed bedroom door.

---

The pet stared at the food lingering just within its reach. Its stomach growled with a painful gnawing sensation, a hunger that it felt in its very soul. It couldn’t remember the last time it had eaten a full meal, even a proper serving of the standard issue nutrient shakes at the facility. The last time it had real food, proper food like this, had been with its old master. And even then, it had been many, many months. Maybe it had been years. Only good pets got proper meals, and its old master had been certain about one thing: the pet was not a good pet.

Even after Master had left the room, the pet knew better than to touch either the water or the food. It hadn’t been given permission to eat, not yet. No matter how thirsty, and no matter how hungry, it knew that if it were to survive under Master’s rule, it would have to be obedient. That meant that until it was explicitly allowed to touch this food, until it was given the order to eat and to drink, it would continue to wait patiently.

Hunger was a familiar companion by now. Food was denied as part of its training, often one of its first punishments, and its continued disobedience now showed in how frail the pet had become. It had watched as its ribs began to appear, first barely perceptible across its abdomen, and then so sharp that they caught shadows in the low light. Then came the dizziness, the shakes, the difficulty with its memory. The skin over its collarbones had been pulled tight, and it felt like coldness sat in the hollows between its shoulders and its neck. Its fingers had always been thin, but now they were skeletal, the tendons of its hands dancing like the strings of a marionette whenever it moved.

Those same hands rested patiently on its thighs now. The aesthetics of its body had never bothered the pet, and it knew that its hair and body were to be kept according to its masters preferences. Maybe Master would expect it to keep this particularly lithe form, which the pet wouldn’t mind. It only hoped, a hope that was brief and fleeting, that it would be permitted to eat enough that the incessant shaking and dizziness would finally cease.

The sight of feet reappearing pulled the pet from its wandering thoughts and ever-present hunger.

---

Much to Rowan’s disappointment, both the sandwich and the water remained untouched. Again, just as the first time he left the room, it appeared that the boy hadn’t moved at all.

This second instance of inaction gave Rowan immediate pause. This behavior was exactly what the paperwork had said about the boy, hadn’t it? He’d been sent to the liquidation floor because of apparent selective disobedience to commands.

But Rowan hadn’t given a command, not in the sense that most people did when they spoke to their pets. His suggestions had been conversational at best, his best attempt to emphasize the importance of the boy’s autonomy from the very beginning. The rehabilitation handbook had said this method worked for some individuals who were eager to grasp that first bit of freedom.

Others, however, would sometimes require the familiarity of commands and hierarchical structures before they were comfortable enough to come out of their shells. It seemed that maybe this boy would be a part of the latter group.

Rowan had hoped that he would go his entire life without feeding into the depravity of the system, that he would never issue a command to another human being, that he would treat all persons as equals to himself. But his own choices, his own rash decisions that brought the boy here in the first place, meant that this philosophy would have to change.

It wouldn’t hurt to try gentle persuasion one more time, though, would it? For his own sake, Rowan knew would have to try.

“Hey,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft despite the lump in his throat, “I need to make sure you’re eating and drinking, okay? I don’t know when they fed you last, or if you’re even feeling okay right now, but can you at least drink that glass of water and eat that food? Please?”

Nothing. Not so much as a blink or a twitch that showed any recognition of what Rowan was asking. The boy hadn’t even acknowledged Rowan’s presence besides following him to the bedroom.

Fuck, he groaned internally. There was no use in putting it off any longer. He’d gotten himself into this mess, and now he was going to have to get them both out. It was time to grow a spine.

“You need to eat and drink,” Rowan said, raising his voice ever so slightly. He winced in spite of himself. “You’re going to drink that full glass of water, and eat all of the food on that plate. Now.”

To his horror and surprise, it worked.

---

Master’s voice split from its warm murmuring to a tone that was sharp and commanding. It was the cue the pet had been waiting for.

Cautiously, ever-so-carefully, the pet raised its eyes to meet Master’s lips. It peered through the web of its greasy-thick hair and tried to make out exactly what Master wanted it to do. Lips moved, sharp words cut, and the pet thought it understood.

Drink the water, eat the food.

There would be no second chance to get this right. The pet was incredulous that those were truly the words that Master had uttered. But that increase in vocal pitch, paired with the movement of Master’s lips, was all that the pet could abide.

Even if it was wrong, and even if it had mistaken the precise command Master had issued, it was hopeful that it would at least get a mouthful of water to soothe its parched tongue before the punishment came.

The pet slowly moved its hand from its lap and towards the glass of water. It braced itself for a kick to the ribs, or perhaps another blow to the head, but none came. Hand trembling, both from the fear it couldn’t mask and exhaustion of the last few days, it grabbed the glass. Just as methodically, still waiting for a correction, it raised the glass to its lips. A final pause. No correction came.

It drank. It drank with a ravenous thirst, one that one single glass wouldn’t quench. It could have easily drunk another glass, no, three or four more glasses. The taste of the cool water over its tongue was heavenly bliss. The relief and release of the drink was enough, just for a moment, to dissolve the fear of being in a new place with its new master.

Fear returned as it reached out to grab the sandwich. Eating this would be more challenging, requiring just enough grace so that not even a single crumb spilled from the corners of its lips, but still demonstrating the swiftness and efficiency that was expected of a good pet. Wasting food was a sign of disrespect, and the pet was absolutely grateful for a meal like this. It had no intention to disrespect Master and his generous offerings.

As carefully and daintily as it could, the pet tore its teeth through the bread and the thick spread of peanut butter and grape. It was so hungry that it didn’t pause to appreciate the flavors or textures. Instead, it focused on devouring as neatly as was possible in a near animal state. Without its training it might not have accomplished such a feat, but somehow, it managed to eat the entire offering without a crumb dropping to the floor.

A rumble came from Master’s lips, that same warmness that he’d been using since the pet first emerged from its box. Although some part of it expected some punishment for eating, it didn’t come. Instead, all the pet could feel was some queasiness: it had been so long since it had eaten a meal of that size, and its stomach was soured by the heaviness and a lingering hunger from the recesses of its mind. The signals in its body were conflicting between hunger and nourishment, and the pet could only hope it would keep the meal down long enough for it to make a difference in its foggy mind.

Maybe the meal had been the punishment in and of itself? Maybe, just maybe, keeping itself together after the meal was its first test?

Then another command, a sharp voice, and Master’s feet turned towards the door. The pet hadn’t had the opportunity to look up at his lips, but the options were to either stay or to follow. It paused to think, a moment in time to decide its fate. Master had left the room before, but hadn’t issued a command, and the pet had done right by staying. Now, Master was leaving, but had clearly spoken a command. It paused a moment, but could intuit that the command had been to follow, rather than to stay.

And so it followed.

---

“Follow me to the bathroom, let’s get you cleaned up,” Rowan barked out. He still tried to speak gently, but it seemed that a sharper, more commanding tone was the only thing that was going to work for now. It felt too much like shouting for comfort, and the act of issuing commands itself was disconcerting, but the boy didn’t seem bothered. Still on his hands and knees, the scarred houseguest followed Rowan’s every step.

It was a short walk across the hall to the bathroom. The smell of bleach still lingered in the air, but at least Rowan had been able to mask the stench of mildew and weeks of neglect. For now, though the white tiles didn’t gleam, it was serviceable for a shower.

Rowan patted the new towels he had folded and placed on the toilet tank. Although he wasn’t issuing a command, because the boy hadn’t looked up, Rowan raised his voice slightly nonetheless. It was the only thing that seemed to get through to him.

“These towels and washcloths are yours, so use as many as you need. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, it’s all in the shower. Go ahead and clean yourself up, yeah? Take as long as you want, use hot water, use whatever is in there. It’s not much, but I’m going to pick up some more things that are just for you later this week.”

He stepped towards the door, lingering for just a moment to see if they boy would respond. Instead of verbal recognition, the boy’s frail frame clambered over the lip of the bathtub and into the newly-cleaned porcelain. Hands started to reach for the knobs to turn on the water, head still bowed, so Rowan took his leave.

---

The pet tried not to wrinkle its nose at the heavy stench of powdered bleach lingering in the air. It could already feel the burns that would form on the skin of its palms as it scrubbed the bathroom clean with the caustic chemicals. It knew it shouldn’t have preferences, but it did anyway. They couldn’t beat the preference out of it, no matter how hard they tried. There were so many cleaning products that were easier to work with, that didn’t burn its lungs and throat, that didn’t make its hands raw and red with pain the way that powdered bleach did.

But the bathroom wasn’t the thing that Master had asked it to clean, at least not yet. There was no use dreading an uncertain future. Instead, Master had asked it to clean itself, make itself presentable.

There was no surprise there. The fear and discomfort had served it well, and would continue to serve it well as it learned what Master expected of it. It had shown restraint in waiting to eat until a command was issued, and it had showed obedience in following Master’s commands to follow and to shower. But now, the pet was being asked to read between the lines. A good pet was not only responsive, but could anticipate its master’s needs with effortless grace.

There were few things that a new master would want to explore with their pet on their first day, and the pet was well-acquainted with what likely came next. It certainly wasn’t as clean as its old master would have required before such activities, having only received a quick hose-down before it was loaded into its box. There was still some dried blood stuck to its skin, and its scalp was thick with grease and dandruff that it hadn’t been able to wash out since it began its refurbishment those many weeks ago. Its nose was blind to it by now, but the pet was certain that it smelled faintly like the fear and sweat that clung to the training facility walls.

If it had any hope of pleasing its new master, it would have to spend the time and effort to clean itself up a bit more. First impressions, particularly first impressions of its primary skillsets, were of the utmost importance.

After a few moments of scrutinizing the silver knobs on the wall, it eased the showerhead on. It flinched as the cold water hit its skin, it always did, but then it relaxed into the gentle stream. This was better than any of the rough hose-downs it had received while at the facility, and better than the showers provided for its old master’s pets. The privacy felt like an unearned privilege, and the pet was determined to enjoy the luxury while it still could.

Nerves made it hard to hold steady as it climbed to its feet. Without Master present, it didn’t have to kneel, and standing would make it easier to clean itself. Its head swam with a familiar blackness and ringing in its ears, and it leaned on the tiled wall until the dizziness passed. The food that it had just eaten would help, even if it would take some time to feel the effects of the nourishment. And maybe, just maybe, it would steal some water from the tap now, drink a few mouthfuls as the cold water ran down its face…

No, it reminded itself with a sharp correction, balling its fists up as though Handler Green had shoved the cattle prod into its ribs. This was its first day with Master, its first chance to prove its worth, and it was already thinking of disobedience. Master had already given it something to drink, and it should be grateful. There was no need to steal even a single mouthful now, not even from the freely flowing showerhead, not even in the privacy of solitude.

It banished the thought from its mind and got busy with scrubbing itself clean. First came its hair, so much longer now than when it had entered the refurbishment program, the curls heavy with water and shampoo. The shampoo was light, faintly floral, and the pet relished in the sensation of soap pulling the grime and blood away from its scalp. When it glanced down at the floor of the bathtub it saw that the water was rust-colored as it flowed down the drain.

Once its hair was clean, shampooed twice and rinsed thrice, it took to scrubbing its body down with determined and practiced vigor. Every inch of skin was worked over, even the skin that was heavily bruised and covered in scabs. It allowed itself the grace to wince as it pressed down on the bruises and still-healing wounds, but it still scrubbed away at them with the same determination.

Mostly, it tried not to think about how much its ribs had begun to stick through its skin, and how easily they would break under the slightest application of force. It was fragile now, filthy and covered in the marks of its disobedience. Its insolence was captured by the permanent paint of scars from head to toe.

It scrubbed, and rinsed, and then scrubbed again, until the water turned from copper, to pale pink, to clear. Its arms had begun to pucker with goosebumps under the steady flow of cold water. But finally, with a final rotation and a check that the water was indeed flowing clearly now, it shut the water off.

The towels waiting for it were warmer and fluffier than anything it could remember being given at either the training facility or by its old master. As it wrapped itself in the terrycloth it sighed a small sigh of relief, an exhalation it was sure made no sound. Even if it couldn’t hear such quiet breaths itself, it had learned when others could from its old master’s many corrections. A sigh, by itself and behind a closed door, would likely go unnoticed.

After it had dried itself it carefully folded the towel and placed it on the floor. It would have to figure out where Master kept his dirty clothes and towels sooner or later, especially since it would be responsible for the laundry. There would be time for that soon. But now, since it was clean, it was time to get to work.

The pet settled back down onto its knees, carefully selecting the tiles of the floor to kneel on rather than the rug in front of the sink. It wasn’t going to seek out small pleasures and privileges that it had not yet earned, not on this first day. Everything it did would show that it was good, that it was obedient.

The tiles were better than cold cement it was accustomed to, anyway.

A few moments later the door pushed open. Master was back, here to fetch it, take it back to the room it had just come from. That soft murmuring of Master’s voice came again, the conversational tone like water lapping on a white-sand shore, not the hot knife of a command. The pet still tried its best to listen attentively through the ringing of its ears.

Then, the command came, cutting sharp through the susurrus. Follow. And so the pet did.

As it expected, it was led back to the same room it had just come from. Its heart fluttered in its chest. It remembered where the low-lying bed had been pushed against the wall, and how far it was off the ground. Climbing up on the bed from the ground would pose little difficulty, a single fluid motion enough to situate it comfortably atop the flat surface.

Master walked towards the bed with broad strides, and with a rush of adrenaline, the pet climbed up onto the bed beside the towering pile of blankets. Fabric and plush bedding were soft beneath its knees, and it gave a small sigh of relief that the bed was so comfortable.

There was no time to relish in the comfort, however. The instinct of its training and prior service took over. There were multiple options for it to begin, to entice Master’s senses, but one came to the forefront of its mind. That one, it decided, would show off both grace and the care it put into its servitude.

It placed its hands evenly apart, symmetrical and in line with its knees, forming carefully orchestrated lines throughout its body. Once it found its balance it arched its back, pushed its hips firmly into the air, and lowered its chest towards the bed. Weight shifted forward, onto its forearms now, and it felt confident it would be steady despite its latest wave dizziness and nausea. Although it couldn’t quite see itself from this angle – there was no mirror here like there was in the training facility – it was confident that its posture was perfect.

There were many things the pet had failed at during its training, and during its time with its old master, but this had never been one of them. Of its many tasks and duties, the pet was certain that it was able to pleasure its masters. And despite its fear, it was certain it could do the same for Master now. This was its chance to prove itself, make a good first impression, show Master that it was more than its inability to hear his commands.

All that remained was to slowly, carefully, turn its head to the side, look up at Master and push its lower lip out ever so slightly- And as soon as its eyes met Master’s, Master shouted with a roar of what the pet knew was fury.

A/N: And in this chapter, we spend 8,000 words to eat a sandwich, make a phone call, and take a shower. I wonder what happens next!

Taglist

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#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 3 months ago

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He'd gone to the livestock auction for chickens. His great uncle had died and left his smallholding to him. Overgrown land full of weeds and a small house in desperate need of updating. He'd cleared out a section of the yard and had planned on getting half a dozen Bantums to get him started. Eventually he thought maybe a couple of old donkeys when he got the field cleared.

The boxie looked old for a pet, maybe 30 or so. Covered in scars and looked like he'd been hastily hosed down after a long period of being covered in his own filth. Long streaks of muck still clinging to him in places.

The men by the cage were jeering at the boxie.

"Nah look at the state of it, it's barely fit as dog bait"

"I thought Owens was meant to be coming today he usually has something decent"

Turning the tag on the cage to show the guide price

"£500 they're having a laugh, most expensive dog meat on the market at that price"

"Might be worth a punt if it goes cheap enough though. Give the guard dogs something to keep em busy this weekend"

The auction thankfully didn't drag the animals up one by one, the bids going too fast for that to be practical. The Bantums came up and he got them for less than he'd thought. He should go, something made him stay. The boxie came up. Opening bid a measly £50 it climbed slowly to £200 peering around he spotted the man he'd seen at the cage. Taking a deep breath he raised his number. The other man bid another couple of times but soon gave up, the worn out boxie not worth much.

Well this was a stupid idea. What the hell was he gonna do with a box boy at the end of its use? Maybe he could at least make him comfortable in his last days, like he'd planned to do with his donkeys.

The dog cage was hefted up onto the bed of his defender and strapped down. The cage of hens beside it then he was off home

#bbu fic

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 4 months ago

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Inspection

Carlisle

CW/TW: BBU/WRU, pet whump, institutional slavery, offscreen noncon.

God, he hates random inspections. Scheduled ones he can prepare his people for. Knowing what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier, but it helps a little.

An Inspector showing up on his doorstep, going through his house, and harassing his people is absolute hell.

He has to smile and let it happen.

He keeps his smile pasted on while he leads the Inspector through his house.

“You allow the Designations to mix?”

“Yes. They socialize with each other.”

“Some people find it corrupts their training.”

“Hm.” People read what they want in neutral, noncommittal sounds.

He grits his teeth when Inspector Grey calls out “Respect” to see every Pet in earshot drop to their knees and genuflect. He keeps smiling, as Grey chooses random Pets to go through the different positions.

He genuinely smiles when he sees Gideon and 115 sitting together in a common room. He still isn’t sure about their relationship, but Gideon had brought 115 quite a bit out of his shell.

Perhaps the smile was the mistake.

Grey moves toward the pair, who react immediately to the black WRU uniform. Gideon stands up, tall and straight, making him appear bigger through his posture.

115 slides off the couch with boneless grace into a kneeling position.

“Good,” Grey says. “Now, come on. I want to see how much of your training you remember.”

He’s not smiling now, waiting outside 115’s room. Listening, despite himself.

He wants to wipe the smug, satisfied smile off the Inspector’s face when he comes out of the room. It’s a conscious effort to keep his hands from balling into fists, especially when he hears Gideon’s apologies and 115 crying.

Up until now, WRU Inspectors haven’t used his people that way. He pulls out his phone, instead of his fists.

“I’d like your WRU ID number, and your supervisor’s name and ID number.”

“Your Sanctuary passed my inspection, Mr. Black. There’s no need for that.”

“I want to file a complaint.”

The other man doesn’t laugh, though Carlisle can see he wants to. He does reel off the requested information, before finally leaving.

Gideon leans against a wall, looking sick and shaken. Despite the tears drying on his cheeks, and the bruises on his body, 115 seems eerily calm.

“I am sorry,” Carlisle says, hating the futility of it, hating that he can’t honestly say It won’t happen again.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump @nicolepascaline @inpainandsuffering @simbahhishere @whimpers-and-whumpers @theoriginal-grasseater @writereleaserepeat

#bbu fic #offscreen noncon

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bbu-whump-reblogs · 4 months 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 · 4 months 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 · 4 months 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 · 4 months 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 · 4 months 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 · 4 months 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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